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B ipaatoraL 



Windsor Magazine 













Africa, The Future of. Illustrated from photographs .... Ernest E. Williams 537 

Agnus, Orme. " Vickery's Deplorable Stratagem " 63 

" The Poet's Love " 203 

" The Coming of a Soldier " 347 

*' The Miraculous Inspiration of Mr. Jesty " 431 

Ambassador's Dilemma, The. Illustrated by J. Finnemore . . E. Phillips Oppenheim 462 

America and the World's Wheat Supply. Illustrated from photographs Bay Stannard Baker 665 

An Alien Fannie Moodij 22 

Annulling a Prophecy. Illustrated by T. W. Henry W. N. Oscar 469 

Apotheosis of the Summer Youth, The F. Klickmann 240 

Archery, Ancient and Modern. Illustrated from photographs .... Lilias Dawson 502 

Armand's Treasure. Illustrated by Warwick Goble Mayne Lindsay 679 

Art and Letters in a Surrey Town. Illustrated from photographs . . Charles T. Bateman 577 

Austin, Henry. Illustrations to " Stromboli and the Guns " 567 

" The Short Shrift of the Filibuster " 700 

Autumn Morning, An Dorothy Hardy 565 

Bad News Florence M. Gill 451 

''Baltic," The. Illustrated from photographs William C. Mackenzie 559 

Battle Painters and War Artists, A Group of. Illustrated with reproductions of various 

paintings Robert Machray 261 

Biggest Engine in the World, The. Illustrated from photographs . . Herbert G. Fyfe 169 

Blind, The Education of the. Illustrated from photographs .... Philip Gibbs 217 

BoESB, Bertie. " Ordered to the Front " 216 

"A Study" -699 

Illustrations to " Dogs of War " 621 

Bridal, The St. Clair Simmons 468 

Bridge, Sir Frederick, at Westminster Abbey. Illustrated from photographs F. Klickmann 74 

Butterflies Spenser Pryse 416 

By Courtesy of the Clown. Illustrated by Henry Hutt . . . Annie Fellows Johnston 136 

By Flashlight. Illustrated by Adolf Thiede G. M. Baines 226 

Camera, Distinguished Devotees op the. Illustrated from photographs . A. Wallis Myers 363 

Century's Hard Cash, A. Illustrated from diagrams J. Holt Schooling 95 

Charge of the 21st Lancers at Omdurman J^. Caton Woodville, B.L 260 

Cider-Making in the West Country J, Ayton Symington 566 

Coming op a Soldier, The. Illustrated by Gunning King . . .... Orme Agnus 347 

Conveyances, The Queen's. Illustrated from photographs George A. Wade 55 

Copping, Harold. Illustrations to " Young Barbarians " . . . . 81, 183, 251, 379, 493, 612 

Count, The. Illustrated by Harold Copping Ian Maclaren 81 

Courtesy of the Clown, By. Illustrated by Henry Hutt . . . Annie Fellows Johnston 136 

Cricketers' Hands, Some Famous. Illustrated from photographs . . M. Bandal Roberts 17 

Crockett, S. R. " A Romancer's Local Colour " 3 

Crudeson's Castle. Illustrated by Will Owen Philip Treherjie 553 

Danish Newlyn, A. Illustrated with reproductions of various paintings . . A. E. Fletcher 123 

Day-Dreams R, Anning Bell 224 

Dead Men's Holiday Louise Chandler Moulton 415 

Distinguished Devotees of the Camera. Illustrated from photographs . A. Wallis Myers 363 

Dogs of War. Illustrated by G. Vernon-Stokes and B. Boese . . . Irving Montagu 621 

Duels of Modern Times, Renowned. Illustrated from photographs . . . A. de Burgh 613 

Editor's Scrap-Book, The 115, 235, 357, 477, 595, 709 

Education of the Blind, The. Illustrated from photographs .... Philip Gibbs 217 

Engine, The Biggest, in the World. Illustrated from photographs . . Herbert C. Fyfe 169 

Enthusiasts J. Ayton Symington 174 





*' Eemack," The Ice-Beeaker. Illustrated from photographs .... Earl Mayo 389 

Ejrror op Justice, An. Illustrated by A. Wallis Mills Harold White 659 

EwAN, Fbances. Illustrations to " The Father Confessor " . 23 

„ *' The Line of Fate" 586 

Extra Charge, The . . . . Charles Fears 239 

Famous Cricketers' Hands, Some. Illustrated from photographs . . M. Eandal Roberts 17 

*'Far erom the Madding Crowd" A. Hugh Fisher 16 

Father Confessor, The. Illustrated by Frances Ewan . . . Mrs. Clement Shorter 23 
Favourite Quotations of Literary People, The. Illustrated from photographs and facsimiles 

F. Klickmann 297 

Fieldfares A. J. Wall 611 

First Lesson, The . Percy Tarrant 320 

Fisher, A. Hugh. ** Far from the Madding Crowd " 16 

" The Old Orchard " 122 

Fletcher, A. E. " A Danish Newlyn " . 123 

Footsteps of Cupid, In the. Illustrated from photographs . . . Frederick Dolman 307 

Forestier, A. Illustrations to " Pro Patria " 33,165,273,397,517,629 

Future of Africa, The. Illustrated from photographs .... Ernest E. Williams 537 

Generals, Our Reserve of. Illustrated from photographs 

Gleaners, The . 

Gribble, Francis. *' Stromboli and the Guns " 

" The Short Shrift of the Filibuster " . 
Guerilla Warfare. Illustrated by Harold Copping . 

Robert Machray 
Frangois Millet 

Ian Maclaren 


"Heard Melodies are Sweet, but Those Unheard are Sweeter" . . F. H. Williams 482 

Hero op Company G, The. Illustrated by John Da Costa ..... Octave Thanet 103 

His Favourite Fare J. Ay ton Symington 362 

Honeysuckle ............. Beatrice Offor 602 

How Landowners are Made. Illustrated from photographs . . , Arthur Goodrich 425 

Ice-Breaker " Ermack," The. Illustrated from photographs .... Earl Mayo 389 

Ideala .............. Arthur Rickett 360 

*' I do Love I Know Not What." Illustrated by Stephen Reid ..... Herrick 259 

If. Illustrated by A. C. Weatherstone ........ Constance Sutcliffe 73 

In a Summer Land ........... Harold Percival 242 

Indian Mother Song, An . . . . . . . . . . . Willis Irwin 651 

India Office, The. Illustrated from photographs . . . . . Robert Machray 483 

In the Footsteps op Cupid. Illustrated from photographs . . . Frederick Dolman 307 

Jalland, G. H. "Reassuring" ......;...... 115 

" A Trifle Hazy " . 118 

"Far Safer" 477 

" The Horse Supply " . . . . 598 

" Amenities at Our Point to Point Race " 714 

Jokes without Words ........... Alfred Ronner 235 

King, Gunning. Illustrations to " The Coming of a Soldier " ....... 347 

,, " The Miraculous Inspiration of Mr. Jesty " .... 431 

Klickmann, F. "An Organist and His Art " 74 

" The Apotheosis of the Summer Youth " 240 

" The Favourite Quotations of Literary People " . . . . . . . 297 

" i^e— The Hubbard Dog " 480 

" Concerning Jack and Jill " .......... 709 

Klickmann, Wilfrid. "Over-developed" 695 

Klimsgh, Eugbn. " The Troth " 135 

" The Language of Love" . 688 

Labour op Love, A 

Landowners are Made, How. Illustrated from photographs 

Language op Love, The . 

Last Resort, A. Illustrated by Harold Copping . 

Line of Fate, The. Illustrated by Frances Ewan 

L. S. D. OF Literary Shrines, The. Illustrated from photographs 

. Percy Tarrant 

Arthur Goodrich 

. Eugen Klimsch 

Ian Maclaren 

G. E. Mitton 

. Harry Golding 


Maclaren, Ian. 
Mayne Lindsay. 

" Young Barbarians " 
" Armand's Treasure ' 

81, 183, 251, 379, 493, 612 
. 679 


Miles, Eustace H. "Tennis'' . • 

Miraculous Inspiration of Mr. Jesty, ihe, 
Montagu, Irving. " Dogs of War " . 
Moody, Fannie. " An Alien " . 
"Too Hot" 

MOONRISE ON the MoOR . • • 

MoossY. Illustrated by Harold Copping . • 

Morocco, Some Notes About. Illustrated from photograp^^ 
MouLTON, Mrs. Louise Chandler. " Dead Men's Holiday 
Mrs. Captain Proctor. Illustrated by Victor Prout . 
<' My First Century." Illustrated from photographs . 

illustrated hy Gunning King 

Or me Agnus 

George Bankin 

Ian Maclaren 

S. L. Bensusan 

Alfred Slade 
M. Bandal Roberts 

Newcombb, Bertha. 

Illustrations to " Vickery's Deplorable Stratagem" 
" The Poet's Love " . 





Illustrated from photographs 

Oberammergau, The Passion Play at. 

Offor, Beatrice. "Honeysuckle" . • • 

Old Garden, The 

Old Orchard, The . • • • _•, *. ' ,, 
Oppenheim, B. Phillips. " The Ambassador s Dilemma 
Opportunity Makes the Thief . . • • • 
Ordered TO the Front . . • , • ," ' ^ 
Organist and His Art, An. Illustrated from photographs 
Our Beserve of Generals. Illustrated from photographs 
Over-developed • ' 

A. de Burgh 

Fred Hines 
A. Hugh Fisher 

. Ernest Vickers 

B. Boese 

F. Klickmann 

Robert Machray 

Wilfrid Klickmann 

Passion Play at Oberammergau 
Pastoral, A 






Pears, Charles. 

Pemberton, Max. 
Pbrcival, Harold 

A Serious Dilemma " 

The Extra Charge " 

Too Old a Bird" . 

A Possible Explanation " 

Taken for Granted " 

" Pro Patria " 
"A Pastoral" 
" In a Summer Land " . 
Pett Ridge, W. '* The City at Lunch " . 
Pictures in Fire. Illustrated from photographs . 

Playing a Substitute. Illustrated by A. Walks Mills 
Pleasant Sin, A. Illustrated by Harold Copping 
Poet's Love, The. Illustrated by Bertha Newconabe . 
Polo, The Present Popularity op. Illustrated from phot 
Possible Explanation, A . - , • ' . I i „ 

Problem for Empires, A. Illustrated from photographs 
Pro Patria. Illustrated by A. Forestier 

Illustrated from photographs . . A. de Burgh 

Harold Percival Frontispiece 

. 119 

. 239 

. 359 

. 479 

. 711 
155, 273, 397, 517, 629 




Frederick A. Talbot 
Horace Bleackley 
Ian Maclaren 
Or me Agnus 
Basil Tozer 
Chas. Pears 
S. L. Bensusan 


Queen's Conveyances, The. Illustrated from photographs . 

Max Pemberton 33, 155, 273, 397, 517, 629 
George A. Wade 55 

. ^^^ „ . . Montagu Barstow 678 

S™ DUE^^^^ TiMES.- Illustrated from photographs • • • i' fl^^t '2? 

Reserve OF Generals, Our. Illustrated from photographs . . . Robert Machray J7 

Rickett, Arthur. " Novel Apparel " ^^^ 

" Ideala "..••••••••■'* .rrrr 

" Dairy-Made Music " . . . • • ■ • ' a ' r> n' i it <\ 

Romancer's Local Colour, A. Illustrated from photographs . . . . S. R. Crockett ^^d 

RoNNER, Alfred. " Jokes without Words " 

SALVATION Abmy as A SOCIAL FoBOE, THE. Illustrated by photographs . fredA^^a^Kcnzu 689 

Science v Sentiment '. \chas. Pears 119 

Serious Dilemma,^ A W.E.Webster 117 

ShiTe-Hoeses, SOME Splendid, 'illustrated from photographs .' . - . Gambier BolUm 89 

ftTTnRTTTTi Mrs Clement. " The Father Coufessor ' -r^ ' . ^ -m* nnn 

IZt Shbiet-oe THE Ki.iB.STEB, The. Illustrated by Henry Austin . . Fran.^s Gr.bbU 700 

Some Famous Okicketees- Hands. Illustrated from photographs . . ^; ^~ ^^Hy Wl 

Song • • ^ • .■ ] ifrs. Comyns Carr 80 

Ipenceb, Tb. pTcivl, A- Chat with. lilustrated from photographs . Frederick A. Talbot 321 

vi INDEX, 


Spbing. Illustrated by E. Vickers W. Bennett 102 

Stromboli and the Guns. Illustrated by Henry Austin ..... Francis Gribble 567 

Symington, J. Ayton. " Science i;. Sentiment " .......... 15 

" Enthusiasts " 174 

*' His Favourite Fare " 362 

" Cider-Making in the West Country " 566 

Taken for Granted Chas. Pears 111 

Telephone of the Future, The. Illustrated from photographs . . . G. A. Raper 510 

Tennis. Illustrated from photographs . Eustace H. Miles 603 

To All Whom it May Concern Arthur Cooke 599 

Too Hot .............. Fannie Moody 424 

Too Old a Bird Chas. Pears 359 

To THE Memory of the Brave. Illustrated from photographs .... George A. Wade 147 

Tournament, A. Illustrated by Harold Copping ....... Ian Maclaren 183 

Traveller in the Air, A. Illustrated from photographs .... Frederick A. Talbot 321 

Troth, The , E. Klimsch 135 

Value of a Vote, The. Illustrated from diagrams H. Morgan-Browne 653 

Vickers, E. ''Spring" 102 

" Opportunity Makes the Thief " 509 

Vigkery's Deplorable Stratagem. Illustrated by Bertha Newcombe . . Orme Agnus 63 

Wade, George A. " The Queen's Conveyances " 55 

"To the Memory of the Brave" . . .147 

''The Yeomen of the Guard" 417 

Wall, A. J. " Who Goes There ? " 346 

"Fieldfares" . . . * 611 

Wheat Supply, America and the World's. Illustrated from photographs . Ray Stannard Baker 665 

*' When Autumn Wanes to Winter " . George Rankin 658 

" Who Goes There ? " ^' J- Wall 346 

Williams, Ernest E. " The Future of Africa " 537 

Yeomen of the Guard, The. Illustrated from photographs .... George A. Wade 417 
Young Barbarians. Illustrated by Harold Copping . . Ian Maclaren 81, 183, 251, 379, 493, 612 



With sMeen Illusti^afions by the Author. 

I SING photography — not of the stand, 
but of the hand — not of the studio, but 
of the larger canopy, the shifting crowd, 
the lonely tarn, the nesting bird. The 
practice of this art has added to my life a 
new and wealthy province, a kingdom of the 
earth and air, a sea domain wide as the 
waters to which men go down in ships, a 
large and cheerful place lighted with the 

writing his reminiscences" — the notice in 
the Literary Gossip column intimates without 
any reading between the lines that the afore- 
said D.A. had better be looked after by his 
friends. But on this occasion I hope that 
my slip from virtue may be forgiven, in that, 
like the French lady's accident, " it is such a 
little one ! " 

From my youth up, then, 1 have been the 


light of love and merry with children's 

But in order fully to explain how photo- 
graphy has done this it is necessary to 
be somewhat autobiographical, a privilege 
generally reserved for men in their dotage. 
" Mr. So-and-So, the distinguished author, is 

* Copyright, 1900, by S. R. Crockett, in the United 
States of America. 

June, 1900. 3 

possessor of a memory which, remarkable 
enough in its way, is yet at times incon- 
venient, and even sufficiently exasperating. 
Not that I have ever knowingly "cultivated" 
it by any of the tliousand systems which have 
come into vogue during the last twenty years. 
I never set it a single task with tlie intention 
of strengthening its fibre. Like my com- 
peers at school and college, I learned no more 
than I could help. I never could get any- 

B 2 

crc) 2 


thing accurately " by heart " all the days of 
me. It is a sheer impossibility for me to 
" quote correctly "—as a distinguished critic 
says every gentleman ought to be able to do. 
What is of infinitely less moment is that I 
cannot recall any couplet or line of prose 
I have ever written. 

Yet for all this I have a somewhat unique 
memory — of a kind. Perhaps you have seen, 
in the darksome shadow of a mine, a grimy 
little imp sitting deep in the gloom, a pencil 
and notebook in his hand, a modicum of 
Sixth Standard arithmetic in his head, taking 
note of the truck-loads of coal as they are 
brought under the pit " eye." He scuttles 
out into the half-light for a moment, jots 
down a figure or two, and is back in his den 
again before the next trolley comes clatter- 
ing by. 

That is just the kind of memory I have — 
with this important exception, that whereas 
this grimy " checker " takes note only of 
facts apposite, useful, pertinent to his 
master's purpose, my particular Imp delights 
to let the really serviceable and important 
slip unrecorded past, while, if there be any 
series of facts particularly useless and offen- 
sively gratuitous, these he will toil after and 
record with a fulness of detail and a precision 

of statement worthy of a British Museum 
Catalogue. For instance, I am prepared to 
furnish to the Great Northern Railway 
Company a correct list of the carriages com- 
posing their East Coast Express upon the 
last half-dozen occasions on which I have 
travelled by that excellent route. I know 
the numbers of the engines, the order of the 
carriages, the position and general contents 
of the luggage compartments. I could also, 
if called upon, supply the police wath fair 
working descriptions of the officials on duty 
on these occasions, the loiterers about the 
stations, and the passengers, ordinary and 
extraordinary. None of this information 
can ever be of the slightest use to me. It 
'does not, happily for myself, remain always 
as vivid, but is gradually relegated to a 
limbo or cobwebby mental garret of similar 
dehris. But yet I do not forget even 
this, I only mislay it. For scraps from this 
rubbish-heap often stand clear again after 
years in the visions of the night, or when I 
get my nexfc slight return of an old malarial 

In fact, this Imp of Memory never seems 
to forget anything absolutely, save what is 
useful and necessary. He will carefully 
preserve old washing-lists (marked " Paid "), 




pages of ancient college text-books scored in 
red and blue and green against the next 
examination-day, the exact appearance of a 
bank of grasses and flowers and brambles 
which all went to mere top-dressing thirty 
long years ago. But ask the fellow to turn 
up something more useful at a moment's 
notice, and will he ? No— several thousand 
times no, indeed ! 

He is like our northern Brownie— the 
domestic spirit and Lob-lie-by-the-fire of a 
Scottish farm-town ; he will work — so long 
as he is not pressed, so long as no one by a 
look or a whisper hints that he is expected 
to work. But the instant the slightest com- 
pulsion is laid upon him, at the least hint of 
bit or bridle, he firms his legs beneath him 
like a balky horse, and will not move one 
inch either for whip or spur. 

It was long before I learned to humour 
this tricksy Puck, and stern necessity alone 
taught me how. But I have well learned 
now, and during these last years a notable 
London firm has aided me beyojid all hope 
in the task of putting the harness upon my 
jerky Pegasus, and helped me also to hold 
the carrots to his nose. 

For to a journeyman of letters, especially 
if lie work in the importunate province of 
serial fiction, nothing is more necessary than 

a ready memory. He must carry every fact 
and impression, indexed, arranged, and filed 
for reference, each in its own snug cell uj) 
among the grey matter of his brain— or, if 
not there, somewhere else equally handy. 

He is writing, let us say, a tale of the 
later seventeenth century in Scotland. The 
long-parted lovers are escaping. The stern 
parent, cruel persecutor that he is, follows 
hot on the trail. Well wots tlie romancer 
that if the story is to be read with a rush, 
it must be written with, a rush. The eye of 
the reader will not brighten or his breathing 
slacken till it well-nigh stands still, unless 
his own fingers trip it featly over the paper. 
After imagination gets the steam up it will 
not do to stop and find out if there were 
really carriages and carriage-roads in that 
part of the country in 1689. He must 
know as well as he knows the best ten 
miles of cycling-road in his neighbourhood 
wdiat bridges were built, what fords over 
great waters were to be crossed, what hills 
the heroine looks upon wdien like a dove 
she mourns at the windows of her captivity. 
What is more, he must not pause to look up 
Slezer's invaluable "Theatre," nor yet to 
pull down the dog-eared oblong Road-book, 
nor hunt in the crabbed italic of Pout's ' 
Atlas for what he wants. Even the most 


jog-trot and pedestrian muse will desert him 
on such provocation. Pegasus, an he were 
the veriest cart-horse, is oif with a flourish 
of heels. The romancer, in fact, must keep 
all his exhibitory facts in a cabinet with 
labelled drawers, of which the fittings slide 
easily and the contents lie ready to his hand. 
He must make no mistakes, or Nemesis waits. 
The reviewer has also (generally recently) 
passed the Sixth Standard. 

There is now no more any seacoast to 
Bohemia. Even the mighty Wizard himself 
dare not write " Gay Mannering " without 


ever having set foot in Galloway, or Defoe 
be content to make his acquaintance with 
Selkirk's Island upon the quays of Bristol. 
The critic has made an Iron iige and called 
it realism. Imagination must lurk behind 
the most perfect knowledge. To one belong 
the shining steel muscles and iron bowels of 
the steamship, to another the moving shuttles 
and kindly peat-hearths of a northern village, 
to yet another " the one-horse " towns of the 
West, past which the steamers with their 
thirty-foot wheels plough the great Missis- 
sippi. But of each it is required that his 

facts shall be so and not otherwise. He may 
idealise, but he must know w^hat tlie real is. 
He may " learn to drop the ' By'r-lady's ' from 
every word he slings," but though he omits 
them on paper they must ring in his ear as 
he writes. 

For this new demand of the closing years 
of the century upon imaginati\'e writers, the 
term " local colour " has been transferred 
from the painter's kindred art. It is con- 
venient, but inaccurate, and the term has 
been much abused. It is by no means 
sufficient to visit a district with notebook 
and camera during a brief summer holiday 
in order to write a book about it, with the 
" local colour " ground out to order by the 
mere " pressing of the button." 

For myself, I like at the very least three 
years of prolonged residence and extensive 
walking tours, living with the people in 
cottage and farm-house, rest-house and road- 
side inn, before I begin even to draw^ up 
chapter-headings. And this is just as 
necessary upon ground with every foot of 
which I have been familiar from youth as 
upon the tawny hills of Spain or among the 
Baltic marshes. 

Possessing, as I do, so tricksome and 
fallacious a memory, I had of necessity to 
take strong steps in the matter. And now, 
at the time of writing, over two hundred 
volumes of indexed cuttings, over a thousand 
notebooks, and a great multitude which no 
man can number of shorthand scribblings 
that it were arrant flattery to call sketches, 
attest at least diligence and good intent. 

With a callousness born of many years' 
suffering at the hands of reviewers I now 
proceed to lay bare the nakedness of the 
land. These methods of mine may do good 
to no human soul, but at least they have a 
certain psychological interest as showing how 
a fairly accurate and serviceably indexed 
memory has been formed out of very 
imperfect materials. 

It is possible that some of my readers 
may have looked into a book called " The 
Raiders." If so, they may be interested to 
see the original fountain-pen dot-and-dash 
which served while writing to recall the grim 
Murder Hole on the western shores of Loch 
Neldricken (p. 13). 

Or again, here is a memorandum of a few 
lines and several scribbled names, each one 
of which touches the spring of a drawer up 
aloft in the dominions of the Mnemonic 
Imp (p. 13). The lines are nothing, but to 
me the written words recall all the great 
array of the central Highlands of Galloway 


— Ben Yelleray, the Hill of the Eagle, the 
weird and lonesome Nick o' the Dead 
Wife, the murder-haunted Hill of the Star, 
treacherous, granite-girt Loch Neldricken, 
utmost Enoch, and that vast Dungeon of 
Buchan out of whose gigantic cauldron the 
mists bubble up like the boiling of a pot— 
these with their tales, legends, crimes, come 
back to me in all tlie glory of their changeful 
beauty as I look at that crabbed arrangement 
of names. 

Still, the method was undeniably cumbrous, 
and 1 had to return again and again to the 
same spot in order to carry away a working 
impression. Indeed, like one of their own 
steadfast ghosts I grew to haunt these head- 
quarters of legend. But I yearned for some 
method more complete, certain, and per- 
manent, of recording and filing these 

So in a moment of inspiration it chanced 
that I strolled into a railway terminus. I 
stood a moment undecided at the l}ookstall 
and then demanded a co^foi Nature. The 
brisk young gentleman behind the counter 
offered me a choice between Tit-Bits and 
the British Journal of Photography. Being 
at the moment frivolously inclined, I chose 




the lattei*. and lo ! on turning the pages I 
saw for the first time a certain mystic 
announcement. It was a modest advertise- 
ment, drawn up with the lack of enthusiasm 
of a builder's specification. Messrs. Blank 
and Blauk did not describe themselves as 
the " Great and Only " of Photography. 
They did not offer a selection of cameras at 
prices varying from seven and sixpence to 
fifty pounds, each only representing varying 
superlatives of the adjective " perfect." They 
did not abuse other makers ; in fact, they 
employed none of the time-honoured methods 
of the transatlantic advertiser who " keeps 

each other with kindred ignorance, light- 
hearted and various. We had an English 
camera, Swiss chemicals, Belgian plates 
(made by a Dr. Somebody), German weights 
and measures, a lack of information at once 
complete and cheerful, and our results were, 
to say the least of it, remarkable. 

Yes, they have certainly a right to be 
called so. We anticipated, indeed, some of 
the most remarkable photographic discoveries 
of the present day. We discovered, for 
instance, that it is possible to develop and 
fix (in spots) at the same time. Colour 
photography is new% is it ? Why, I have a 



*? . 

^p^,-^W";:,' „. 


^^®^^l^«^(^ ■ '■ 


iV "** 


~>te "K- :- 

• V ; 2^ 


abreast of the times." All the same, their 
straightforward offer to provide a scientific 
instrument, capable of infallibly producing 
certain results, sent them, direct from the 
station bookstall, not the least constant and 
grateful of their customers. 

I was not exactly new to photography. 

From my youth up I had dabbled (liter- 
ally) in the great trouser-staining science. 
Sixteen years before, someone from Edin- 
burgh had sent to the Alps the first camera 
with which I had ever any practical acquaint- 
ance. To this day I possess some of the 
proofs of that early enthusiasm. At that 
time I had a friend with me, and we assisted 

print of an ascent of the Matterhorn coloured 
as brilliantly as an anatomical drawing, and 
that without the use of pigments. Another 
of a lady would be even more beautiful if 
the delicate pink of her cheeks had not 
overrun, or, as it were, culminated at the 
point of her nose ! Another has been 
supposed by frivolous persons to represent 
Dante's first view of the infernal regions, 
with attendant devils ; and I admit that, 
to the hasty and inaccurate observer, there 
is much which might support this view. It 
is really a collection of guides standing at 
gaze upon a mountain summit. The brown 
of their weather-stained leggings is remark- 



ably lifelike ; and I have little doubt that 
the papers would now be squabbling as to 
which of us was the inventor and which 
the dupe (the Niepce and Daguerre of colour 
photography), had it not beei:^that by some 
chance of chemical action, or imperfect 
washing in hotel basins, the snow-clad 
mountain tops came out a vivid crimson. 
Indeed, our process broke down just at that 

point. By no possibility could w^e produce 
the same result twice running. 

However, let it be said for us that we did 
not intend our prints to come out coloured 
in prismatic hues. And if w^e achieved so 
much without trying, what might we not 
have done if w^e had really tried ! 

My next adventure was made with a 
roller - film, wind -'em - round - the - spool - elide - 







aiid-away-slie-goes machine. I never was 
master of that tricksome instrument. Per- 
haps I had not the necessary hydraulic 
machinery to keep the fihn from rolling 
itself as tight as a cigar as soon as the 
developer was poured on. It may be that I 
did not possess the right kind of scissors, 
for the negatives came up uniformly cut 
through the middle, except when the leading 
figure was placed at the side, according to 
the correctest canons of composition. Then 
he was as accurately divided as Solomon 



proposed to do with the bal)e claimed by 
two mothers. But in those days I enjoyed 
good spirits, and the lunnber of beautiful 
views I had through the finder reconciled 
me to discovering notliing on the plate. I 
also discovered, while in 'possession of this 
camera, to what a number of uses thin 
roller-film may be put after it is spoiled. It 
makes good fire-crackers when stuffed with 
sporting powder. No Glorious Fourth can 
be truly glorious without them. Cut into 
thin strips it makes good bait for minnows. 

No despicable sticking-plaster may be manu- 
factured therefrom. With the addition of 
fish-glue it mends windows to admiration. 
It makes pretty finger-plates for doors. 
With it you can construct the loveliest 
navies that sail the waters of any tub, and 
afterwards the boy can for a brief space 
" stand on the burning deck " as soon as 
you put a match to them. This refers to 
the dear old roller-film of ten or tw^elve 
years ago, which was a thinner, crinklier, 
more generally lovable article of commerce. 
Of the new kind I have had no experience. 
As my friend Mr. Bassano says, " You can 
photograph with it, but it will not catch 
fish." Ours acted quite contrariwise. We 
caught minnows, but no masterpieces. 

So much for the boasted march of 
improvement ! Is not this enough to make 
us all ask ourselves the question — well, I 
don't know wdiat question — but some 
question ? 

Since then I have tried nearly every kind 
and sort of camera that has been put upon 
the market. I was not happy till I got 
them. I w^as even less happy until I got 
rid of them — generally (though not invari- 
ably) at some pecuniary loss. I became, in 
fact, an amateur of failures. I think I must 
have the finest collection of spoilt plates in 
England. Once I was showing a friend of 
mine a good tomato-frame entirely con- 
striicted of spoiled ***** plates, and advising 
him always to use that quality of glass for 
his if he wanted the best table vegetables, 
when he turned to me and said, shaking his 
head, " Sir, I have no spoilt plates. I never 
make a failure ! " 

So I went into the house and got him a 
little hatchet and a book called, "The Early 
Years of George Washington." 

I know well that these failures were by 
no means the fault of the cameras I bought. 
They were due to my own carelessness, or 
haste, or idiocy, or something. I know this 
because the advertisements were generally 
accompanied by prints which the makers 
had made with the identically same camera 
they sold me. Besides which, there were 
enlargements six feet square to be seen in 
their windows — also made with the camera 
by turning it back side first. I could not do 
this, so I cleared out at a loss. 

No, I could not do these things ; and — to 
tell the truth — I don't think the other fellows 
who bought second-hand from me could 
either. For they generally wanted me to 
take the camera back after a w^eek. It took 
them about that time to discover that the 




shutter jarred with a recoil like that of an 
elephant gun ; that the beautiful changing- 
gear generally changed all the plates at once 
instead of one at a time, or that the 
splendidly adjusted patent springs jammed 
and refused to change any at all. I would 
have none of this, because (so I pointed out) 
this was entirely the other fellow's fault. 
For the makers continued to produce the 
most beautiful pictures with the self-same 
instrument, with never a failure (at least, in 
their shop- windows). 

At this point my friends usually asked me 
why I had misled them into the belief that I 
only .sold " because I was giving up photo- 
graphy." But again I referred them to the 
maker's advertisement, and in addition told 
them a little moral tale. 

" Said the chairman of one Scottish school- 
board to the chairman of another Scottish 
school-board, 'Why did you give that 
teacher you sent us so good a character ? 
Why^ the fellow is perfectly useless ! ' His 
friend replied, *Eh, man, ye'U hae to gie 
him a far better character before ye get rid 
o'him!'" ^ 

, Thus, through suffering, personal and 
vicarious, the way was being prepared for 
. Messrs. Blank and Blank. 

Now, I am no special pleader. This 
hrm has not offered me a percentage on 

&^JU- i-v.-.f^s^-^h. 

■* k. .i^ 




(I wish they would !) I do not know 
anything whatever about them, save that 
they have made my work easier and my life 
brighter, and so, with the easy benevolence 
which costs nothing, I am eager that others 
should go and do hkewise. There may be 
cameras as good — though I have never seen 
til em, and I believe I have tried all that 
aspire to that honour. 

As for my own work, I have now had 
many stories not only illustrated, but even 
suggested, by pictures which I have taken 
with my precious new camera. 

I do not say that they w^ere good stories, 
though the public appeared willing enough 
to read tliem— any more than I dare call 
my prints " pictures," for fear of my good 
friend Mr. Joseph Pennell, who, trun- 
cheon in hand, is waiting round the corner 
to catch me in the act. All the same, 
I would not accept a considerable sum for 
my collection of some 6,000 " records " 
taken in half a score of coun tries ™-few of 
them in large towns, or of buildings which 
have l)een photographed before, but of 



highways and byways, of land-thieves and 
water-thieves, Portuguese muleteers, Iberian 
shepherds, naked Berber children playing 
under the scanty, edgewise shade of palms— 
a thousand types of human folk and a 
thousand nooks and corners of landscape 
never before set down by the quick pencil of 
the sun. 

Look, for instance, at this idyll of the 
street which I seized at the great door of 
the Cathedral of a certain Gascon city 
altogether given up to dull horrors and the 
speculative builder (p. 3). " Voila des 
Anglais! " is its name. For a party of Eng- 
lish, dust-wrappered and red-Baedeker-ed, 
IS gazing upwards at the towers from the 
little square of the market-place. At the 
door of tlie Cathedral the old vendor of 
votive candles and pictures of the Virgin 
has been sitting. To her enter a "friend 
from the country," market basket in one 
band, great blue cotton umbrella in the 
other. She sets her treasures down to 
remain under the care of the seller of holy 
things while she goes within to say her 
taithtul prayers. She has concluded her 




bargainings not unsuccessfully, and now, like 
a good Christian, does not wish to leave the 
town till she is on the best of terms with 
both God and man. 

But the quick eye of her friend, 
sedulous after a new thing, is 
caught by the strange, uncivilised 
tribe, who yet carry all the money 
of the world in their breeches 

" Vifs ! — Vite! " she cries, turn- 
ing her gossip about and pointing 
with a hand in which you can still 
see the knitting thread. " See the 
English ! Are they not a people 
fort curievx ? " 

So the old peasant woman fol- 
lows the index linger hastily and 
tremulously, and I can see all her 
life in that look. No ! You are 
right. None other can see it but 
I— all the shrewdness, the self- 
repression, the humour which 
through a long life has supported 
her under the strange ways of Providence 
and the peculiarities of men. She lost a son 
(or was it two ?) in the war. It was at Metz 
in the days of the Great Betrayal. 

But she is not yet too old to be amused. 
" That people should live like that ! That 
they should dress so outlandishly, and go 
staring about at what nobody else ever 
glances at ! There is a great slate loose 
somewhere ! But after all — time speeds — to 
prayers ! " And so presently, with basket 
on arm and blue umbrella tapping the cobbles. 

do not -because I was there, and glancing 
momentarily along the top of my camera, 
caught the idyll, as like a bubble it hung 
suspended in mid-air. 

No — they are not pictures in any proper 


she wends 
the dusty 
Jules will 
dinner ! 

That is only a part of what I see that you 

her way out of the city, along 

highways, and so home — where 

be already ravening for his 


sense of the word. Mr. Pennell is right. 
But to me at least almost every one of these 
six thousand is a trigger-pull, an " Open 
Sesame," a keyword, the label on a full 
drawer which contains many rich things. 

I can only select a few of the most sug- 
gestive, nor can I in a brief paper like this 
do the least justice to what they can tell me. 
Here, for instance, is George Sand's house, 
at Gargilesse, on the Creuse (p. 4). Down 
those steps the great writer tripped many a 
day just as hot, with her morning's work 

^ behind her and the quiet of " My 

Village" all about. Here is the 
gate of the chateau through whose 
bars she looked, nor ever env'cd 
the great folk within (p. 5). It 
also is now given over, if not to 
the moles and bats, at least to the 
bleak-boarded window and the 
scuttling, indigent rat. . 

Here, again, are boatloads of 
summer-Sundaying happy folk on 
the loveliest river in France, where 
all rivers are lovely (p. 7). But I 
will keep the name of it to myself. 
Here (and one of my most cher- 
ished) is the great Moorish Water- 
wheel which lifts the precious 
waters of the Segura eighty feet 
into the air, before sending them through 
a myriad runnels and rivulets to make yet 
more luxuriant the voluptuous huerta of 
Murcia (p. 6). Hundreds of years ago the 
Moors made it. It has been so often 



repaired that 1 question if any of the original 
wood remains unrotted. But there, with the 
last light of sunset streaming through it, 
the great circle moves round, slow and 
stately, no derelict, but doing each day its 
full day's '' darg," spouting waste _ water it 
it is true at every pore, but out of its super- 
abundance, not from any infirmity of age. 

Next, almost at random, I lift an impres- 
sion of the town drummer of Mende making 
a proclamation of M. Da'oulede's meeting 
(p. 7). The tap of his drumsticks is still 
as clear m m{ ear as the clatter of his 
pointed sabots over the ipam. 

Again, in the mellow evening light, see 
the shepherdess of Provence lead her easy- 
minded flock across the famous Bridge of 
Beaucaire (which Tartarin so often crossed) 
into the sliade of King Bene's grim fortress 
in the town of Tarascon (p. 9). 

Soft and rose-coloured was the light, and 
the shadows dark purple where the sheep 
cropped the sweet grasses underneath the 
low coping of Beaucaire ]3ridge. 

But whether of shepherdess or of house- 
wife, to woman's work there is no end. 
These three women in the preceding picture 
(p. 8) have been cleansing the fine wool for 
to-morrow's spinning, and drawing the water 
for the kitchen. Only a single stolen minute 
liave they stopped to gossip on the bridge 
under the rocky fortress of Gaston de Foix. 
But I was at tlieir back, and there on the 
Bridge of Foix they will stand for many and 
many a year. 

Yet even to such comes rest, and here — 
the picture lies to my hand — is the little 
Camisard village of La Ca valeric, which 
held out so long against all the forces of Le 
Grand Monar(|ue (p. 10). See, slie sits safe 
and snug behind the wall which the Protes- 
tant peasants built with their own hands, 
not one of them being skilled in masonry, 
yet wliich sufficed to keep his Grace of 
Guise at bay till the dark days were overpast. 

Again, upon the bridge at Argenton (it 
will not be hid from my readers that I love 
all bridges, and am accustomed to lie in 
wait upon tliem) behold Monsieur pause to 
speak with Madame (p. 11). "Why has 
she not sold her goat—so fine an animal ? 
Parbleu! — it is not to be undoj'stood — but 
doubtkss Madame has put a large reserve 
price upon so noble a beast." And in front 
of thein sturdy little Jeannette trudges past 
with her umbrella and lier yard-long loaf — 
a true staff of life indeed. 

The next picture is somewhat sad, for in 
it you see the latter end of the goat which 
pricked its tail so vivaciously upon the 
bridge over the Creuse (p. 11). A rustic 
furrier dresses the skins which in Regent 
Street will one day be ticketed " Finest 
Suedes" at 3s. llfJ. per pair. Meanwhile, 
observe the canine Autolycus and his " pal," 
who are in waiting below to snap up un- 
considered trifles. 

Then, again, we have, at his corner in the 
city of Valencia, a legitimate and accredited 
beggar at his stance (p. 12), his stick on his 
arm and his bag by his side — a capitalist 
and conservative he, his " pitch " worth 
money of the realm, and his whole life 
certainly provided for among his own kindly, 
charitable, lovable Spanish townsfolk. 

No, I do not say that all these things are 
apparent in the reproductions ; only that 
the sight of the prints presses the button, 
and my imagination does the rest. And 
so all my " records " are precious. They 
unlock the shut doors of memory and bring 
some of the finest moments I have lived 
back to me, clear and untarnished out of 
the dust-heap of the years. 

Neither do I affirm (lest some of my 
readers be tempted to send me also a little 
hatchet and a " Life of George Washington ") 
that I make no failures. Nay, rather, from 
the standpoint of the " competition " and 
the great photographic exhibitions, it may 
more truly be said that I never make any 
successes. But from the point of yiqw of a 
breadwinning man-of-letters these scraps of 
sun- writing, hieroglyphic to others, are worth 
honest minted gold. Li addition to which 
they bring with them laughter and tears, 
the brightness of rivers wherein the children 
paddle, or the gloom of storm as the 
thundercloud settles down upon the 
mountains. Breaths of high hill air come 
to me as I turn them over. Patches of 
gold and blue shine on cathedral pavements, 
w^orn to the quick by the knees of faithful 
worshippers. In a word, if any desire to 
preserve such-like things against the days 
when he shall not wander any more, when 
the gold shall have faded from well-beloved 
tresses, and the voices that now greet him 
are silent— let him do as I have done. Let 
him go to them that sell — and buy, that he 
may garner precious memories, and, as it 
were, bottle his sunshine against the days 
of darkness. For assuredly they shall be 

..... ^ J! ■'■f/^:t,H - 

*i i,~.-'^-,yi«''x <A^ ,j|; 

•Ic^k;" '-^j.j*-. ;^, .', -. 

Science i*. Sentiment 

By J. Ayton Symington. 

O M 

•^ 5 



o < 

u> fa 


WHAT are the qualities that go to 
make np a great cricketer, and are 
they natural or acquired ? As to 
a batsman authorities differ. Prince Eanjit- 
sinhji is of opinion that, given a certain 
natural aptitude, batting can be learned by 
anyone who devotes the necessary time and 
trouble to the art. Other equally good 
judges consider that the great batsman must 
be born, not made. But, however much 
authorities may differ as to the batsman, 
there is- no divergence of opinion about the 
bowler. It is universally agreed that great 
bowlers cannot be manufactured. They are 
essentially a product of Xature. 

However, putting aside the question as to 
whether great cricketers are born or made, 
it is quite certain that they possess some 
quality or qualities which differentiate them 
from " duffers " with the bat and ball, and 
it would be an interesting study if one could 
place all the first-rate cricketers in tlie 
country under a microscope to try to dis- 
cover whether they possess any outward and 
visible signs of their high calling. Every 
successful batsman must, of course, have a 
good eye. That goes witliout saying. Any- 
one not gifted with good eyesight who 
should trust to assiduous practice to learn 





how to play Lockwood or Mr. Kortright on 
a bumpy Avicket would probably liave his 
error brought home to him by becoming a 
subject for a coroner's inquest. But good 
eyesight is a somewhat intangible possession. 
You can't tell by looking at a man whether 
he has a good eye or not. The ordeal of the 
microscope would probably reveal that all 
great cricketers have in common some gift 
besides a keenness of eye. 

Palmistry as applied to cricketers is as yet 
an undeveloped art, though it seems obvious 
enough that, as the hand and wrist play such 
an important part in cricket, the hands of 







great batsmen and bowlers must differ in 
some way from those of mere ordinary 
mortals. The writer is not a palmist, bnt 
it occurred to him lately that a comparison 
of the hands of famous cricketers^ might 
reveal some interesting facts, and with this 
object in view he sought the aid of what 
may be called typical players — that is to say, 
bowlers, wicket-keepers, and batsmen, both 
• hard hitting and of the steady order. Most 
\of the cricketers to whom he applied entered 
so readily into his project that his task was 
an easy one. 

In a subject of this sort it is, of course, 
possible to make only a very rough and 
ready classification, but judging from the 
number of hands which came under my 
inspection I should be hiclined to think 
that, speaking generally, there is a family 
resemblance in point of formation betw^een 
the hands of most great batsmen. The like- 
ness, I admit, is not striking, but it is 
sufficiently strong to indicate that, provided 
you know tlie owner is a cricketer, he is a 
batsman and not a bowler. 

Mr. Stoddart's hand, a photograph of 
which is reproduced here, may be taken as 
the typical hand of a batsman. I am 
aware, of course, that Mr. Stoddart is an 

G. mcgrp:goii's right hand. 

exceedingly useful bowler, but it is his 
batting and not his bowling that has won 
him his great name. It will be noticed that 
the great length of finger which is so strongly 
marked in most bowlers is absent. It is 
essentially a well proportioned hand, though, 
to borrow the language of the racing -stable, 
it is incHned to be on the small side. Great 
batsmen are evidently not a splay-fingered 
race. Mr. Stoddart's hands are characteristic 
of their owner. They have a thoroughly 
neat and workmanlike appearance. In 
one important particular they differ very 
materially from the hands of nearly every 
cricketer who submitted to the camera ; they 
do not bear the faintest trace of the rough 
usage they must have undergone during 
Mr. Stoddart's dozen years of experience of 
fielding against all sorts and conditions of 

The next photograph gives an excellent 
illustration of the honourable scars which 
many less fortunate cricketers than Mr. 
Stoddart display. It is the photograph of 
the right hand of a very w^ell known pro- 
fessional l)atsman, who, however, does not 
wish his name to be mentioned. Old 
cricketers can remember how before the days 
of batthig-gloves it was no uncommon sight 



at Lord's and elsewhere to see a player who 
had been badly hit on the knuckles stooping 
down and wiping the blood off his fingers in 
the dust and then continuing his innings 
none the worse for his w^ounds. We may 
not see such a sight nowadays, but all 
the same it is plain enough from the 
accompanying photograph that the modern 
cricketer requires just as much pluck as the 
players of fifty years ago. Batting-gloves 
may protect the batsman's knuckles, but 
what about the fieldsman's palms ? The 
owner of the hand here reproduced, during 
the seven years he has been playing first- 
class cricket, has had his first finger broken 
once, his middle finger dislocated twice, 
while the scar, which can be plainly seen in 
the photograph, is the tell-tale mark of what 
the seams of a cricket ball can do when a 
fieldsman rashly interferes with the progress 
of a red-hot drive from the bat of a Jessop 
or a C. I. Thornton. 

From a mere spectacular point of view 
wicket-keepers' hands are distinctly dis- 
appointing. That the hands of the wicket- 
keeper receive more continuous buffeting 
than those of any other cricketer is an 
indisputable fact, and one might reasonably 
expect to find in every "keeper's" hands 

some unmistakable evidence of their owner's 
calling. But this expectation will not stand 
the test of cold fact. Two very interesting 
pairs of hands are reproduced here, Mr. 
McGregor's and Mr. A. E. Newton's. Readers 
of the Windsor have no need to be told that 
both these cricketers are in the very front 
-rank of wicket-keepers, and that both of 
them have stood behind the stumps for 
many years to almost every type of bowler. 
But you could not tell this from their hands. 
Mr. Newton's hands are as free from bruises 
as Mr. Stoddart's, and Mr. McGregor's are 
almost as equally unmarked. In fact, except 
for a slight twist in the top joint of the 
first finger of his left hand, the ball has 
apparently spent itself in vain against Mr. 
McGregor's hands. It might be supposed 
that the scatheless condition of his hands is 
due to the fact that since Mr. McGregor 
has played for Middlesex the county has had 
really no very fast bowler to knock him about ; 
but it must be remembered that for the first 
four years of Mr. McGregor's wicket-keeping 
life he had to " take " some of the fastest 
bowling in England. He was in the Cam- 
bridge Eleven at the same time as S. M. J. 
Woods, and in those days, before he took 
to making a thousand runs in a season, 

A. E. Newton's left hand. 




s. M. J. woods' right hand. 

" Sammy " was one of the fastest bowlers in 
the w^orld. 

The belief, however, that wicket-keepers' 
hands show signs of the battering they have 
to endure is not altogether a popular delusion. 
Tbe writer remembers seeing the hands of 
J. M. Blackham, the famous Australian, a 
few years ago. Nearly every finger on each 
hand had been either broken or badly dis- 
located, and they presented the appearance of 
a gnarled and knotted branch of a tree more 
than an ordinary hand. Wood, too, the 
veteran Surrey wicket-keeper, shows undeni- 
able tokens of having been through the 
wars. Still, taken all round, wicket-keepers' 
hands look far more presentable than is 
generally supposed. 

The next photograph, unfortunately, 
hardly does justice to its original. 
" Sammy's " (nobody ever dreams of calling 
him Mr. Woods) hands are like their owner ; 
they must be seen to be appreciated, but 
they are just the pair of hands you would 
expect to find at the end of the arms of the 
most popular cricketer in England. Their 
massiveness and general expansiveness sug- 
gest their breezy and lion-hearted owner ; 
they look the sort of hands that in a rough 
and tumble yon would much prefer to have 
on your side than on the other fellow's. The 

very sight of S. M. J. Woods' hands forbids 
the thought of kid gloves. A Viking in a 
frock-coat would be about as appropriate a 
figure. What a professional palmist would 
divine from the lines of this hand I am 
unable to guess ; long life would be a fairly 
safe prophecy ; but the most casual observer 
cannot but be struck with the enormous 
length of the palm compared with size of 
the fingers. In the case of nearly every 
other bowler whose hands I examined while 
preparing this article, the length of the 
fingers was a very conspicuous feature, but 
in this respect S. M. J. Woods' hands are an 
exception to the rule that long fingers make 
good bowlers. 

The canon, by the bye, that the excellence 
of bowling is in a direct ratio to the length 
of the bowler's fingers must be taken as 
applying mainly to fast bowlers. The hands 
of most of the slow bowlers w^ho submitted 
to my examination were somewhat inclined 
to stumpiness. This was particularly the 
case with left-hand bowlers. The accom- 
panying illustration shows the hand belong- 
ing to a very famous left-hand bowler 
indeed. The amount of break which this 
bowler can get on the ball is popularly 
supposed to be a natural gift, and to be in 
some way or the other communicated by 




V. T. hill's right hand. 

some peculiar formation of his fingers, but 
judging from the appearance of his hands I 
should feel inclined to think that this 
bowler's success is due more to art than 
nature. As can be seen from a glance at 
the photograph, there is nothing whatever 
unusual in the formation of the hand, 
except, perhaps, that the thumb is abnormally 
bent back and slightly flattened. But as the 
thumb does not play a very important part 
in the propulsion of the ball, the peculiar 
shape of this bowler's thumb may safely be 
neglected in forming any theories as to what 
his particular skill depends on. 

In 1892, Mr. Yernon Hill immortalised 
himself by scoring a century in the Oxford 
and Cambridge match by some of the 
hardest hitting ever seen on Lord's ground. 
Mr. Hill's hand will be interesting if only 
because century makers in the 'Yarsity match 
are few and far between. But in addition 
to that particular feat he has long been 

recognised as one of the best of our left- 
handed batsmen. The bandage which 
appears in the photograph on Mr. Hill's 
finger is not a perpetual ornament ; the 
photograph was taken last year, before he 
had time to recover from the wound he 
received while playing for Somerset against 
Oxford University. The shape of the hand 
is what I call the typical batting hand. It 
is small, rather short in the finger, and sup- 
ported on a sinewy wrist. 

If anyone cares to examine the two photo- 
graphs, he will find a most remarkable 
resemblance between A. E. Stodd art's and 
R. C. N. Palairet's hands. The shape of 
the fingers in both hands is almost identical, 
and, except that Mr. Stoddart's hands are 
rather shorter in the palm, it would puzzle a 
" palmologist " to detect any difference 
between them. This is all the more re- 
markable as the hands of nearly every bats- 
man who came under the gaze of my camera 
possessed some strongly marked distinctive 
feature of their own, which made it quite 
impossible to confuse them with those of any 
other cricketer. 

R. C. N. palairet's LEFT HAND. 

Bn Bltem 

By Fannie Moody. 



Illustrated hy Frances Eivan. 

" T HAD thought for a glad moment you 

I loved me. A week ago I hoped for 

a different answer. Will you tell me 

why this is ? " 

" A week ago. That is a long time." 
" I see — you had not then met him." 
" No, I had not met him ; and yet I seem 

always to have known him." 

" You do not know^ him ; you idealise. 

Your vivid imagination, your love of romance 

and beauty, blind you. He is cruel and 


" How dare you speak to me so ! " 

"I dare because I love. Oh, it is not 

jealousy. Only give him up, and I will go 

away where you will see me no more. Can 

you not read his eyes ? They are so cruel. 

He would kill a person if he hated him." 
" His eyes — they are not cruel ; they are 

full of love, and he does not hate me." 
" He would kill a woman if he grew tired 

of her." 

" Oh, you must not speak so ! I love 

him, and he has asked me to be his wife." 
" Good-bye ! " 
" Good-bye." 

% ^A ^ % ^ 

The priest stood at the bedside of the 
dying woman ; he looked down upon her 
and wondered at her face. Her hair had 
turned pure white— and she so young. Her 
eyes were the eyes of a hare, full of watching, 
always seeming to be expecting some sudden 
fright. Her nervous hands, for ever twitch- 
ing, kept pulling at the blankets and moving 

" I sent for you," she said with a weak 
smile, " to tell you how wrong you were. 
He has been good to me and loves me so. 
I pray God for his sake not to let me die." 

The door was flung open and a man 
staggered in. The woman stretched out her 
thin arms to him — and then saw his face. 
She gave a shrill death cry, and, rising from 
her bed, fell towards him. The priest made 
a step to raise her, but drew back, giving 
the man his place. Laying the dead woman 
back on the bed, the man broke into loud sobs. 

* Copyright, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 

"What has happened," said the stern 
priest, " that you burst into a sick-room 
with your face like that ? " 

" They said she was worse, and I rushed 
down afraid." 

" You have frightened her to death." 

The man grew as white as she was. 

" Frightened her to death ? " he repeated. 

" Look at your face," said the priest. 

The man stood before the glass. Up the 
left side of his throat and face there seemed 
to be a great red gash ; the blood from it 
was on his collar and shirt. 

" Oh," he said, " I nnist have cut myself. 
I w^as shaving when the maid rushed up to 
say my wife was worse, and had sent for a 

He drew a wet cloth across his face and 
the crimson was gone ; only a little scratch 
to account for all that blood. 

The priest closed the door and went out 
into the night. 

-X- "• '»- * -i^ 

For the second time that year the priest 
stood in the same house, and this time, too, 
by the bedside of a dying person. Now it 
was the man who lay there, broken where 
the wheels of a heavy van had crossed him. 
The tortured creature cried to the priest, 
"Confession— confession ! " 

" I am here," the priest answered. He 
bent his head nearer the pillow. 

"You see that book— that book," whispered 
the man. 

" I see no book." 

"There, upon the table— De Quincey's 
' Essay.' " 

" Yes ; ' Murder as One of the Fine Arts.' 
What of it ? " 

"I read it, and I thought of murder as a 
fine art. No poisons, no knives, no stifling 
for me. I planned a murder that no one 
could hang me for or prove against me. A 
fine art ! Oh, I had found the art. Hear 
me — hear me ! " 

" I hear vou." 

" Shall Tever be forgiven ? Nobody ever 
suspected me ; she did not suspect." 

" She ? " 

"A woman. I will tell you the story. 
Come nearer. Why do you look at me like 




that ? I do not know yon. Do you hate 
me ? Are you not a priest ? " 

" Yes, a priest, God forgive me ! Continue 
in peace ; I am listening." 

" Yes, yes. Oh, Heavens, what torture ! 
My murder had no suffering hke this, like 
the death You give me, God ! " 

" Hush, hush ! be patient. It is your 
punishment. Pray for forgiveness." 

" I will pray — yes, yes ; but I must tell 
you first of my sin. I must confess." 

" I am listening." 

" I will tell you a story — mind, it is a 
story. Oh, it could not have been a murder ! 
No one could say it was a murder. No jury 
could hang me, even if they knew all. My 
excuse — youth, and the indissolubility of the 
marriage bond. I was very young when I 

" And she ? " 

" She ? Oh, yes, she was very young, too ; but 
I did not know my own mind — did not know 
that in a few years I should meet a woman 
who v/ould be all the world to me, and whom 
I could not have. I would have flown to 
her, but she w^ould not take me ; and the 
dull tie that I hated bound me down." 

" Why did you marry ? " 

" Why ? Oh, I loved my wife once in a 
way — with a boy's love. And there was 
another lover after her always. The rivalry 
made me more eager, more blind to my true 
feelings. It was winning her from him I 
thought of, more than gaining her myself." 

"So lightly held, so bitterly deplored," 
the priest muttered. 

" You bless me, father ? " the man con- 
tinued. " I want it. Pray for my ease. I 
am in torture ; my sin is great. Soon after 
I married, my life became unbearable. At 
first I did not notice how dull and uninterest- 
ing my wife was ; but when I saw the other 
w^oman my heart leaped out to her, and I 
knew I had met my fate. Then my home 
life became more and more dreary. The 
dull monotony of domesticity rose up around 
me and chained me down. I grew to hate 
my wife's face, with its never-varying expres- 
sion of sweetness and prettiness. She was 
always the same ; she met me with a smile 
every day I came home, and bade me good- 
bye with the same smile at the gate in the 
morning. I knew it so well and hated it so. 
She had a mouth like a young child's, and 
when she smiled a dimple would come " 

" Your crime," said the stern priest. 

" Yes— yes ! I hated her when I com- 
pared her with the grand woman with the 
changing soul of the sea — the woman I 

wanted and could not get, because of this 
little foolish child I had married. And 
there was no way to reach her, except across 
the dead body of my wife — no w^ay that she 
would accept. So I thought and thought, 
until in my mind there grew up a plan. I 
knew my wife's heart was not strong. She 
had a way of putting her hand upon her 
breast when she got any sudden fright, and 
it suggested an idea to me. It was then 
that I read De Quincey's ' Murder as a Fine 
Art,' and I knew I could do better than 
anything I read there. I brought her away 
to a little watering-place, not far from the 
city. The other woman was there. We 
went for long walks along the high cliffs. 
Once I walked by the edge as close as I 
dared, watching the effect on my wdfe. She 
grew white and nervous, begging me to come 
away. But the other woman only laughed, 
and that made me mad. Trying to make 
her fear for me, also, I walked too near the 
edge, and the ground crumbled beneath me. 
When next I knew anything I found the 
other woman bending over me and laughing. 
I rose to my feet and found I was not hurt. 

" ' Come, come ; you are all right,' the 
woman said. ' You only fell a little way. I 
knew you could not be hurt.' 

" Yexed at her calmness, I looked round for 
my wife. She was walking up and down be- 
hind me, holding her hands across her breast. 

"' Oh,' she said, 'you fnghtened me so ! 
My heart beats so strangely.' 

" For some moments she could not calm 
herself ; then she turned to me with her 
smile, holding my hands. 

" ' Did I frighten you ? ' she said. ' But 
my heart — I thought it would not beat 
again. I thought you had fallen over the 
cliff into the sea. I did not know there 
was a ledge only a few feet down.' 

" That was my first trial ; half -accidental, 
but wholly successful. What did you say, 
father ? I did not hear you. Your hand is 
hurting mine ; take it away. 

" From that time I followed out my idea. 
It was so easy. One day a long run for a 
train ; the next a climb over a steep hill. 
One night a lamp overturned and the 
bed on fire ; and the next a pretended 
alarm of thieves. One evening, when she 
w^as alone, I dressed as a tramp and 
threatened her till she swooned. One 
morning I purchased a savage dog and let 
it loose through the house. So things went 
on, till the constant wear on lier nerves and 
heart began to tell. And all through she 
never suspected me, all through I never 

The woman stretched out her thin arms to him— and then saw his face." 



laid inj hands upon lier in violence. I 
travelled with her in other countries, when 
ray opportunities here were getting few ; and 
the other woman came as her friend. All 
through the time her clever eyes were upon 
me, and I did not know if she knew or not. 
If I spoke of my love for her she drew 
herself away, saying, * Be silent ; you are a 
married man.' But I felt that, if it were 
not for my wife, she would have loved me, 
and the thought of it made me savage. 
Think of it — only one life between you and 
the womxn you love ! But you are a priest ; 
what do you know of love ? Oh, the grand 
woman, with eyes changing as the heavens ! 
And she as far from me as the stars, parted 
by that other face which must be always with 
me, with its baby mouth and the dimples 
that came when she smiled " 

"Your story," said the stern priest. 
" Proceed." 

" Pity me, father, you cannot know the 
temptations of the world or the pity of love. 
I had so long to w^ait, and I never touched 
her in violence. She loved me ahvays and 
passed away in peace. 

" One day, in a foreign country, a servant 
killed a poisonous snake and drew it along 
the ground as he passed to burn it amongst 
the refuse of the garden, I saw my wife 
come and set her chair across the track he 
had left. I went out of the house, saying 
that it was fate. I kneAv the mate of the 
snake would follow the scent, seeking for 
its companion, and would find my wife in 
its w^ay. Do you pray for me, father ? I 
cannot hear you — you speak so low. When 
I returned she was sitting, white and statue- 
like, without a movement, and round her 
ankle was curled the body of a snake. I 
would have rushed to her, causing her to 
rise, and thus have ended it all, for my 
heart was evil within me that day. But the 
other woman came to the door that minute, 
and rested her eyes upon me, so that I, too, 
stood transfixed, afraid to move. She bore 
in her hands a saucer of milk and laid it 
down as near the serpent as she dared, 
thrusting it slowly forward with a stick, all 
the time whispering to my wife, * Don't move, 
don't speak, for your life ! ' The snake 
uncurled and glided from her foot at the 
smell of the milk, and the other woman, 
with a blow of the stick, broke its back." 

" God bless her ! " the priest said aloud. 
God bless her ! '; 

" Ah, yeo," said the dying man, " she was 
good, and she would have saved me from 
murder if she could. Once it struck me 

that she only followed us to protect my wife 
from me. But it was only for a moment. 
I could have killed them both if it were so. 
Do you think it could have been so ? You, 
priest, tell me it was only because she loved 

But the priest did not answer. He sat 
with his head upon his breast, his hands 

" From the hot countries," continued the 
man, " I went to the cold. I took her upon 
the glaciers of Switzerland, and I vowed in 
my heart she should not return from them. 
Once in crossing a deep crevasse my foot 
slipped, and in saving myself I threw her over. 
But the other woman turned, and I replaced 
the knife I had taken from my pocket and 
drew her by the rope back to safety. After 
that the other woman went behind, and with 
my wife between us I dared not try again, 
for the rope would bear the love of my 
heart upon it then. But this is my story, 
and what have I more to say ? I came 
home, and my wife and the woman I loved 
came, too, the chain that kept me from her 
still unbroken. My wife was then a shadow 
of her former self, shaken, and frightened 
as a hare. But I never ceased from my 
plan, and at last she broke down beneath it 
and illness came upon her. It was when she 
lay almost without hope of recovery that I 
drew blood from my cheek, scattering it over 
my face and neck, and staggered into her 
room, so that when she saw me in her w^eak- 
ness she gave a great cry and fell back dead. 
And yet I sw^ear to you I never laid my 
hand upon her in violence, nor did she 
suspect. And I have written to the other 
woman many times, but she comes not, nor 
when I wrote saying that my wife was 
dying did she reply. But she will come now 
that I am free. Say it was not murder, 
father, for I never laid my hand upon my 
wife in violence, and death may have been 
from natural causes. But I will recover, 
now that I am free, for the woman I love, 
free from the face of the woman I married — 
with her baby mouth wdiere the dimples came. 
Bless me, father, for I am weary." 

The priest arose and bent over the bed. 
He laid his white hands around the throat 
of the man, but the man smiled back on 
him in victory. He was already dead. 

The priest fell upon his knees by the 
bedside — he held a crucifix in his hands. 
Laying his forehead upon it he fought with 
his soul, and when he arose in the pale 
morning light, upon his white brow the figure 
of the Crucified was seen, red \\i his blood. 




By Robert Machray. 

\"¥THILE all are agreed that war is a 
yy great evil to any people, yet it 
must be admitted, Tolstoi and 
the Peace Society notwithstanding, that in 
the present condition of the world for a 
iiation to be canght unprepared for war may 
be a greater evil still. From the latter 
point of view we can readily see that the 
numerous conflicts —practically one every 
year— in which the British Empire has for 
the past half -century been engaged up and 
down the globe have, at least, had the 
advantage to us of making our Army, in 
greater or less degree, familiar with the 
conduct of campaigns and the art of war. 


Adjutant- General to the Forcea. 

^^*o*o ^y] lElUott d' Fry. 


Inspector-General of Fortifications. 

Nor is this less true even if, as is generally 
the case, each separate war has its own 
special difficulties in new problems to be 
grappled with and solved ; for the experience 
gained in one w^ar in the handling of large 
bodies of troops, in the management of 
transport, and in the commissariat— features 
which are common to all campaigns— is of 
the highest value in any other war. 

The British Ariuy has at this moment a 
larger proportion of generals wlio have seen 
active service in the field than can be found 
in that of any other country, ^""early forty 
generals of various grades have taken part in 
the war in S.outh Africa ; but in what I have 
ventured to call our " reserve " of generals, 
officers who have uot been in the present 
war, and who number considerably more 
than a hundred, there are very few whose 
records do not include two or three 
campaigns. India has frequently been 
spoken of as the training-ground of our 
Army, and it certainly has given us some 
splendid soldiers. Most of our generals 
have served there in one capacity or 
another, and not a few of them have had 
charge of important operations either on 
its frontiers, or in Afghanistan, or Burma. 
There are constantly upwards of fifty of our 
generals in India, and, as any Army man 
will tell you, " Indian men are always good 
men," meaiiing thereby that they are 
experienced and efficient conunanders, it 




follows that in them we have a large and 
reliable portion of our reserve of generals. 
During the last twenty years there have 
been several campaigns in Egypt and the 
Soudan, each of which has helped to trans- 
form men who otherwise must have been 

Photo by] 

Ifhissell tfc Sons. 

Commanding Southern District since 1898. 

mere closet-students of warfare into trained 
and tried leaders of armies in the field. 

It will be evident, therefore, that our forces 
have at their head generals who have had 
excellent opportunities either in India, or in 
Egypt, or in both, of perfecting themselves at 
first-hand in tlieir business. And while it 

is no doubt the case that the great soldier, 
like the great poet or the great anybody else, 
is born and not made, still it cannot be 
disputed that knowledge derived from 
personal observation of actual warfare must 
be of enormous service ; and in this very 
valuable knowledge our generals are rich. 
Nor, numerically considered, are they an 
insignificant body. There are on the Active 
List nearly one hundred and sixty generals, 
of whom fifteen are of the full rank, thirty 
or more are lieutenant-generals, and a 
hundred and ten are major - generals. 
Brigadier-generals are not usually included 
in the list of "generals," but if they 
are added, then our Army has close upon 
two hundred generals. (I have said nothing 
about our field-marshals, of whom there are 
eight, although our two most distinguished 
generals. Lord Wolseley and Lord Eoberts, 
are amongst them, because they form a class 
by themselves.) Thus, if we deduct the 
forty — the actual number is less— who are 
in South Africa, our reserve of generals is 
something Mke a hundred and fifty strong. 
Twelve of these, however, are generals of 
Marines, who never have " commands." 

Among so large a number of generals, it 
may surely be said without offence that all 
have not the same ability or the same 
particular gifts, but there can be no question 
that most of them are capital soldiers ; some 
of them, indeed, have proved themselves 
remarkably able and brilliant men. Except 
in altogether unusual circumstances, a general 
in the British Army— or, for that matter, 
in any army — can hardly be a young man ; 
and while some of our generals have reached 
their rank earlier than others in the service, 
their average age is rather above than under 
fifty. All of them have had to " work their 
way up"— a process which has taken them 
from thirty to forty years. Some of them, 
perhaps, are physically not quite so "fit" 
as when they were younger ; but the condi- 
tions which surround an officer's life are 
such as to make him as good a man practi- 
cally at fifty, or even sixty, as a civilian who 
is many years his junior. A general must 
be able to be in the saddle for many hours 
at a time if necessary, and the " mobility " 
(shall we call it ?) of our generals in South 
Africa shows how well they can stand this 

Old military men tell me that the relations 
between generals and their commands have 
altered very much for the better in the 
Army during the last twenty or thirty years. 
Foimerly a general had very little real 



connection with, or influence npon, his 
troops, and took but a comparatively insig- 
nificant part in their instruction. He used 
to be dreaded as a great magnate whose 
principal function was the carrying out of 
the annual inspection, and of course he was 
a familiar feature on a field day ; but the 
man himself was an unknown quantity. It 
is quite otherwise to-day. The general now 
knows his officers and men, and they know 
their general. In no other country is there 
so much sympathy between commander and 
command as there is in ours, and this applies 
to the whole body of our generals. The 
outbreak of war — often sudden, sometimes 
unexpected — is not the best time for the 
exercise of calm judgment, though it is just 
at such a crisis that it is needed most ; and 
it is unquestionably an excellent feature in 
our Army that our generals are none of 
them " ornamental " soldiers, holding them- 
selves apart in a sort of splendid isolation, 
as it were, from their men. On the con- 
trary, knowing what their men can do, they 
are not likely to be either hurried or flurried. 

Photo by] 

[Elliott <fe Fry. 

Photo by} 

[FAUott & Fry. 

Commanding Belfast District. 

G.C.M.G., G.C.B. 

Inspector-General of Auxiliary Forces. 

The personal element has always entered 
very largely into warfare ; so much so, in 
fact, that nearly all campaigns are identified 
with the names of individual generals. In 
our reserve of generals there must needs be 
many differences of disposition, of tempera- 
ment, and of character in the men who are 
comprised within it, and it is well that it 
should be so. The point to notice is that 
the field of choice is wide enough to cover 
all the operations of war, no matter what 
their scope. During the first part of the 
war in South Africa, the foreign Press, in its 
own kindly and friendly way, flouted and 
sneered at our generals. They even went 
so far as to say that President Kruger had 
issued orders to the effect that his soldiers 
were on no account to shoot at our generals 
—because they were of " more use to him 
living than dead." But when our reserve 
of generals was drawn upon, and Lord 
Roberts and Lord Kitchener appeared upon 
the scene of action, with what result is now 
known to all the earth, these flouts and 
sneers were replaced by the grudging acknow- 
ledgment of the fact that, indisputably, 
we had generals who were generals indeed. 

The space which can be given to an 
article in a magazine is naturally so circum- ■ 
scribed that it is impossible to do more 



here than to group together a few of the 
most prominent members of our reserve of 
generals, Avith a brief glance at the more 
striking or more interesting periods of their 
respective careers. 

Field -Marshal Lord Wolseley, the Com- 
mander-in-Chief, is ipso facto our principal 
general, and would, no doubt, take the field 
were it necessary or expedient. Born in 
1833, lie entered the Army in 1852. His 
record of service therefore extends over 
nearly half a century. Lord Wolseley has 
been so constantly in the pnblic eye for 
many years past that even the most casual 
man in the street knows something about 
him. The present generation may have 
forgotten his earliest exploits in the Burmese 
war of 1852-3, in which, a mere lad of 
twenty, he distinguished himself greatly, or 
in the Crimea, where his services were 
mentioned in despatches. In both of these 
wars he was severely wounded. The Mutiny 
seems to most of us now- ad ays far away ; he 
was present at the relief of Ijucknow. Five 
years later he was in China, and took part 
in the assault of the Taku forts. His first 
great chance came in the Ked River Expedi- 
tion in 1870, of which he was in command ; 
for his successful conduct of tliat affair he 
was made K.C.M.G., and since then it is not 
too much to say that he has been the fore- 


Photo by] [Klliott d- I'ri/. 


Commanding at Devonport. 

Photo hy-\ iFAUott & Fry. 


Director of Military Intelligence, War Office. 

most soldier of the Empire, as witness 
Ashantee (1873-4), South x\frica (1871)), 
Egypt (1882), and the Soudan (1884-5). 
It is perhaps mainly in connection with the 
victory of Tel-el- Kebir that his name will 
go down to posterity. In 1895 he w^as 
appointed Commander-in-Chief ; and his has 
been the vast and tremendous responsibility 
of organising and sending out the large 
army we have accumulated in South Africa 
— a feat which, in its oavu way, is without 
a parallel in the history of the world. In a 
former number of tlie Windsor tliere was 
given an account of Lord Wolseley at the 
War Office. 

The first name on the active list of 
generals is that of H.E.H. Prince Christian 
of Schleswig-Holstein. Next comes that of Sir 
Bobert Biddulph, G.C.B., G.C.M.C, Colonel- 
Commandant of the Boyal Artillery, who 
is at the present time Governor of Gibraltar, 
a post for which he is pre-eminently well 
fitted, as he is one of the best artillerymen 
of our day. He is a thoroughly good man, 
and in the event of a European war, 
improbable, but always possible, no better 
general could be in command of the "Rock." 
The Duke of Connaught, who ranks imme- 
diatt^ly after Sir Robert, won many golden 
opinions when he was in command at 
Aldershot ; and it is very well known that 
H.R.H. would very much have preferred 



South Africa to Ireland, where he is now 
Commander-in-Chief. The Duke is an 
ardent soldier, and inherits those military 
qualities which have ever distinguished our 
Royal line. 

Sir Henry Evelyn Wood, the Adjutant- 
General of the Army, who has the Victoria 
Cross among his numerous orders and 
decorations, is one of the most prominent 
figures in our reserve of generals. Sir 
Evelyn entered the Army by way of the 
Navy, so to speak, serving in the Naval 
Brigade in the Crimea, where he was severely 
wounded. It was in India, in 1858, that 
he won his Y.C, "for having, during the 
action at Sindwaho, when in command of a 
troop of the 3rd Light Infantry, attacked 
with much gallantry, almost singh-handed, 
a body of rebels who had made a stand, and 
whom he routed," and for other gallant and 
courageous acts. He was subsequently with 
Wolseley both in Ashantee and in South 
Africa. On the death of Sir George Colley 
he became Governor of Natal and Com- 
mander-in-Chief of the British forces in 
South Africa in 1881. Still later he saw 
much soldiering in Egypt. Sir Evelyn has 
been well described as a "tremendous 
cavalry soldier." He is the author of two 
books on this arm of the service — " Cavalry 
at Waterloo," and "Achievements of 

Sir Richard Harrison, K.C.B., the In- 
spector-General of Fortifications, the general 
next in seniority to Sir Evelyn, is, as one 
would expect from his position, a " sapper." 
His record begins with the Indian Mutiny, 
and as a young Engineer he was present at 
the siege and capture of Lucknow ; he has 
taken part in four or five other campaigns, 
including the Zulu war and the Egyptian war 
of 1882. He carries his sixty-three years very 
well, is a keen soldier, and extremely " fit." 
Immediately after him on the roll come 
General Chapman, commanding in Scotland, 
Sir Arthur Lyon-Fremantle, and General 
Montgomery-Moore, Colonel of the 18th 

Among the other generals of full rank 
several are connected with the Army in 
India — Horace Anderson, I.S.C, Channer, 
Y.C, I.S.C, and Sir Arthur Palmer, I.S.C, 
in command of the Punjab. 

The last two names on the list of generals 
are both those of men of great distinction 
—Sir Henry Brackenbury, the Director- 
General of Ordnance, and Sir Francis Gren- 
fell, the Governor of Malta. The former, a 
Staff College man, is a student and a diplo- 

matist as well as a soldier. He lias been in 
four or five campaigns, beginning with the 
Mutiny. As an author, his principal work is 
a " Narrative of the Ashantee War." Sir 
Francis Grenfell is a splendid all-round man 
of conspicuous ability, and the excellent 
work he did in Egypt, when he was Sirdar, 
will not soon be forgotten. A strategist and 
a tactician, he is as fine a soldier as is to be 
found in the Army. 

Among the lieutenant-generals not in 
South Africa at the time of writing. Sir 

Photo by] lElUott cfc Fn/. 


Commanding Bundelcuud District since 1895. 

Charles Mansfield Clarke, Sir Cecil East, 
Sir Robert Low, Sir Baker Russell, General 
Geary, Sir G. B. Wolseley, Sir William 
Butler, and Sir George Luck, are all well 
known men. The first-named is on the 
military administration as Quarter-Master 
General, and he has seen service in India, 
New Zealand, and in Zululand. He is the 
man who completed the subjugation of the 
Zuhis. Sir Cecil East is a good student, as 
well as a good soldier. He showed marked 
capacity when he was at the Intelligence 



Department. Sir Robert Low, who has the 
Bombay command, is a first-class soldier. 
Sir Baker Russell, of the 13th Hussars, at 
present commanding at Portsmouth, is not 
only a splendid cavalryman, but also a 
capable all-round general ; he is a tactician 
and a strategist of eminence. General 
Geary is President of the Ordnance Com- 
mittee ; he is a man of keen intellect and an 
extremely hard worker. Sir G. B. Wolseley, 
brother of the Commander-in-Chief, is in 
command at Madras. Sir William Butler, 
now at Devonport, is another of our con- 
spicuously able men. Sir George Luck, a 
magnificent cavalry soldier, has the Bengal 

Such are a few of our lieutenant-generals 
— the exigencies of our space preclude 
making the list as full as I should like. x\nd 
the same remark applies to the major- 
generals, of whom there are something like 
eighty in our reserve of generals. 

Lord Congleton, in command of the 
infantry at Malta, and General Thynne 
(York) are both admirable soldiers. General 
Trotter, who has the London command, is a 
fine officer who does not spare himself. 
General Burnett, now at Poona, is the man 
who revolutionised the feeding of the Army. 
General Maurice is our foremost student- 
soldier. As far back as 1872 he won the 
Wellington Prize Essay, and he has made 

several important contributions to the litera- 
ture of war. He has the district command 
at Woolwich at present. General Gossefc 
(Dublin) is a man of great ability and 
experience. Sir Coleridge Grove, the Mili- 
tary Secretary at Headquarters, is giving 
invaluable service where he is — a position 
for which he is singularly well fitted. 
General Stewart MacGregor, in command of 
the Artillery at Portsmouth, is a capital 
" gunner.'' General Leech — with the excep- 
tion of General Sartorius, the only major- 
general with the y.C. in front of his name — 
is not only a first-class " sapper," but a 
good all-round man. General Lloyd, who 
is at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, 
is a very strong man. General Borrett, the 
Inspector-General of the Auxiliary Forces, 
fills his post to perfection, but he has small 
chance of war service. Sir John Ardagh 
has a very responsible position as Director 
of the Military Intelligence Department. 
General Brownlow is a fearless soldier who 
made a record for himself at Laing's Nek. 
Sir Bindon Blood, now at Meerut, is a 
" sapper," but he is a good deal more. He 
proved himself to be an excellent general in 
the Chitral campaign. John Ramsay Slade 
is the " gunner " who brought his guns out 
of the battle of Mai wand. General Hallam 
Parr (Shorncliffe) is an authority on Mounted 

Photo by} [Elliott & Fry. 


Commanding Madras Forces since 1898. 



Illustrated hy A. Forestier, 



T Abbazia, upon the 
shores of the 
Bay of Quar- 
nero, I first 
heard this 
story from 
the lips of the 
, man who 
that it 
might be told. As he 
wrote it at my solici- 
tation, so for the most 
part is it written here. 
No longer a whispered 
tale for the chief 
priests of bureaucracy, 
some knowledge of it 
at least has passed 
from the council- 
chamber to themarket- 
and there are many who " would an 
they could," yet do not for lack of surer 
ground. One man alone is able to speak ; 
and he has spoken in these pages. That the 
whole nature of the momentous events he 
relates will, hereafter, be understood by his 
fellow countrymen, it would be presumption 
to hope. The Englishman is slow to admit 
the graver perils in which circumstances 
might place his country and his home. The 
unchanging ramparts of sea and shore are 
for him a surer fact than all the armies ( f 
the nations. From the cliffs of Dover he 
looks down upon his " goodly heritage " ; in 
the shadow of the "coastwise lights of 
England" he finds his hope. Should one 
approach him to say, " The day is at hand 
when these ramparts shall not avail, when 
the lights shall shine no more," he would 
give no hearing to so bold a preacher. The 
old complacency would remain undisturbed, 
the unshaken belief in the girdle of the 
waters which, for a thousand years, has stood 
sentinel to the homes of England, and will 
so stand until the end. 

* Copyright, 1900, by Max Pemberton, in the United 
States of America. 

" Three ways I know," said the great 
Moltke, " of getting into your country, but 
I have yet to discover a way of getting out." 

If Alfred Hilhard's story suggests any 
thought to us, it may well be this—" Is the 
truth of the national security the same in our 
day as it was when the first of the Germans 
wrote ? Is it the dreamer alone who may 
tell himself that the national creed is built 
upon a false faith, upon false premises and 
tacit ignorance ? Is it the dreamer alone 
who, in his dreams, may see the sword at 
England's gate and the enemy in her homes ? " 

These questions one man's devotion has 
helped us to ansv/er. A simple soldier, stum- 
bling blindly upon the heart of the nation's 
peril, of such I write. The work which he 
was called upon to do, a thousand hands 
would do again if England's need should 
seek them ; yet not more courageously could 
it be done, nor with greater love for father- 
land, all sufficient and all sacrificing. He 
wrought for his country's sake, and of him 
his friends may say, as the greatest of the 
Englishmen said for Cominius — 

"I do love 
My country's good with a respect more tender. 
More holy, and profound, than mine own life, 
My dear wife's estimate." 



My story, I am to tell it, you say ? The 
hand is the hand of Damon ; but whence 
comes the counsel ? Others, and they are 
many, have been before me wherever the 
tongue of the gossiper is heard. The 
momentous events of these later months — 
events which yet can put a hush upon my 
life — have been the theme of every tattler to 
tickle the ears of the credulous and to make 
strong the boaster. For the pleasure of 
undoing such as these, I must speak, men 
tell me. No longer do my superiors forbid ; 
no longer am I, as a soldier, compelled to 
silence. The reasons are good, but I stand 
to a better. If I speak it shall be as an 
33 D 



Englishman, even the least of my country's 
servants. That which I did, ten thousand 
would do to-morrow if the call were theirs. 
But mine was the lot ; and as it befell so 
let the record go. 

I am to tell my story, but it is to be built 
upon no ancient models. There is to be no 
"dear reader" in it, nor any horsemen 
coming down a hill. Let my friends forgive 
me, if I break faith with them, here at the 
outset ; for who should come galloping to- 
wards Saint Pierre as I write these very lines 
but Harry Fordham, the parson of Cottes- 
brook, in good Northamptonshire, and how 
should he gallop if not upon a horse ? In 
imagination I see him, it is true, for a 
thousand miles, or more if you wish it, lie 
between this sunny bay of Abbazia and the 
old town of Calais, whereto he rode upon 
that good day of June, which remains in my 
memory as any landmark of my childhood, 
or greater day which men may not forget. 
And of Harry shall my first word be, though 
all the canons of the arts are thereby broken, 
and every reader that would follow me quits 
the loitering caravan upon the threshold of 
the pilgrimage. 

"Halloa, Sir Knighfc ! halloa, halloa ! And 
where, in Heaven's name, did you get that 
stink-pot from ? " 

There are some men from whom you take 
insult meekly. Harry Fordham is one of 
them. Let him cast ashes upon your an- 
cestors, and your own handkerchief dusts 
the pictures. God never intended him to be 
a parson, he says. I would wTite it down 
that no truer servant of religion ever wore 
white choker (though, to be sure, he is given 
to stocks when he hunts in winter). 

" ' Stink-pot,' my dear Harry, is a vulgar 
term. Behold a brand new Panhard, de- 
livered an hour ago from the city of Paris. 
It cost a thousand, please to remember. 
Eespect her Majesty's coinage, if you have 
none for me." 

He reined in an impatient horse and 
looked my new automobile up and down 

" The Lord be good to you for coming to 
a thing like that — you that have ridden 
horses. Why, they must smell it in Calais, 
and that's a mile away. Captain Alfred 
Hilliard, you are on the broad and easy 
road. Thank your stars for it." 

I told him to have done with it and not 
to display his ignorance. 

" Come, now, you w^ere never on a motor 
in your life ? " 

" I have too much respect for the Cloth." 

"Which, in your case, is a check suit they 
can see at Dover." 

He looked down at his amazing coat, and 
the twinkle of his keen eyes was a thing to see. 

"The Church must set an example. 
Besides, where shah the loud lyre be heard 
if not in France. I w^ant to know about 
the car." 

" Come aboard and I will haste thy 
manual to be. Seriously, it's a pretty car ? " 

"The proud kettle rejoicing in Day and 
Martin. I admit that it has points above 
other kettles. Be kind to my widow and 
children and I will listen to you. Is the 
horse to come, too ? " 

"Summon that aged impostor at the 
inn -door yonder, and let him hear some 
Winchester French. He seems to want a 

He hailed the fellow with a voice that 
would have moved a Margate hoy, and 
having wasted a good deal of breath in such 
plain injunctions as " Menez le cheval a 
Vecurie,^^ ^' prenez-gfarde,^^ '\je te donmrai un 
frmic,'' he crossed the road and seated him- 
self at my side. 

"To the bureau of the nearest asylum, 
allons done, cher Alfred. I am all for a 
speedy death, ' something lingering, with 
boiling oil in it.' Cover me up and let her 
rip, as Homer says." 

" I will run you into Boulogne under the 
hour, and bring you back with a new faith. 
People who abuse motors belong to a past 
generation — a race that tabooed the steam- 
engine for the sake of the horse-breeder. 
Ten years hence they will be in sackcloth, 
which is not so becoming as an Irish home- 
spun, let me tell you. Admit that the 
sensation is a new thing in your life." 

" I admit everything to the man with the 
club. The thing certainly seems respectable. 
I apologise to its odorous qualities. Omnes 
sihi malle melius esse quam alteri. The 
stink is left upon the road behind us, for 
the benefit of posterity, as it were." 

" There is little or none when we are 
moving, no vibration, no jar, you see. A 
good car always reminds me of a gondola. 
You go and don't know why you go." 

" Until you run into a handy ditch and 
are better informed. Instruct my ignorance, 
what speed are we travelling now ? " 

" Twenty-one and an eighth miles an 
hour. Dow^n the hill yonder I will promise 
you thirty-five miles an hour." 

" And I am an orphan. NuUus est locus 
domestka seda jucundior, Cicero anticipated 
this, my Alfred. Be a little merciful." 



"Do you remember the archdeacon who 
was asked to say prayers because the ship 
was sinking, and who cried, ' Great Heaven ! 
has it come to that?' You remind me of 
him. But I am going to slacken speed, 
Harry. We are now running nine miles an 
hour. Take courage and regard the prospect." 

It is cruelty to animals to drive an auto- 
mobile at her best when you have one in 
statu pypillari aboard. While I knew Harry 
Fordham would have cried " Bravo ! " even 
had we gone at a hundred miles an hour, I 

and vivifying. The blue waters were spread 
out as though at our very feet. A fisher- 
man's cottage upon the cliff had the aspect 
of a doll's house built into some picture which 
a great theatre disclosed. A man lived on 
such a day. Nevertheless, for my part, I 
can never look to the Avhite cliffs of Kent 
without a sickness for my home ; and so ifc 
was upon that morning, when, as a so-called 
invalid and certainly an idler, I turned my 
eyes to Dover town and the green heights of 
England bevond. 

' He looked my new automobile up and down contemptuously." 

slackened speed through the village of La 
Chaussee, and permitted him, as we mounted 
the hill beyond, to enjoy the superb prospect 
of the downs and the odd little town of 
Calais behind us, and even the white cliffs 
of our own country across the laughing sea. 
One of the packet-boats was making Calais 
Harbour then ; a fleet of smacks, their brown 
sails close hauled, drifted rather than sailed 
upon that sparkling field of blue. Out in 
mid-channel a great liner steamed for Thames 
and home in an atmosphere gloriously clear 

" Why are we in Calais, Harry, when we 
might be in London?" I asked him, for 
the scene had stilled his tongue, too. " Do 
you know that the London season is now in 
full ^wmg—vide the society papers ? Think 
of all the pretty women in Hyde Park this 
very day — Ranelagh, Prince's, suppers at the 
Carlton, the clack of tongues, and * Music, 
with her voluptuous swell.' Are you un- 
moved ? " 

" As a rock. I would not change a boat 
of all that fishing-fleet for the house with 



the statues on it in Park Lane. Consider 
me an enigma— and tell me where we 

"At the first decent hotel in Boulogne. 
That windmill over there marks the village 
of Marquise. It is seven miles from there 
to the town, and you shall do it in half an 

" For these and all mercies By the 

way, do you dine with Lepeletier to-night ? 
But of course you do ; where else should 
you dine ? " 

I suppose that my face betrayed me ; for 
presently he laughed and slapped me on the 

" We blush: all is safe !" he cried merrily. 
" Why are we in Calais, old Alfred ? Why, 
to dine with Lepeletier and his daughter." 

I turned it with a question. 

" Are you dining there ? " 

" Be calm. I am, sir. I shall even pre- 
sume to take the exquisite Agnes into dinner. 
Ha, ha ! all is discovered, my Alfred. Fly 
at once." 

I said nothing, for what can a man say at 
such times ? After all, the story must come 
out some time, and why not then ? Surely 
I knew no one to whom I would tell it so 
freely as to Harry Fordham, the largest- 
hearted man that ever preached the gospel 
of humanity. He, meanwhile, flew off at a 

" I like Lepeletier — a French gentleman, 
a rara avis nowadays. It seems odd that 
such a man should be sent to Calais, of all 
places, because the Government has taken it 
into its head to dig a coal-pit, or something. 
But it must be more than that, for when I 
rode over to the works the other day, a 
sentry came out of a box and struck an atti- 
tude which would have done credit to Ajax 
and the lightning. I explained that I agreed 
with him entirely and turned my horse. 
I am sorry to have missed the pith of an 
excellent oration. He really was very angry 
for such a small man." 

" You mean the sea- works over yonder at 
Escalles ? I've often thought of it. The 
oflScial story is a Government survey for new^ 
protective harbour works and coal borings. 
Why should they be so secret about it ? But 
it's always the case in France. They show 
the foreigner the sentry's bayonet. We 
show him everything and give him a glass 
of sherry afterwards. It's the English con- 
fidence, I suppose." 

" And a good, old-fashioned confidence, 
too. I like the open door. If you are going 
to knock a man down for his sins, always do 

it in a gentlemanly way. The skeleton in 
the cupboard is but a collection of bones 
when you dump him down outside. I preach 
that from the pulpit — light and not darkness. 
You cannot tell an honest man from a rogue 
until the lamp is turned up. Get them out 
into the daylight, and you teach them to 

" Fine maxims — I can take more of them 
when that fellow^ over there has done with 
his horse. Why does he perform circus 
tricks on the Eepublic's highway ? " 

"Ask his horse, man, ask his horse. 
Don't you see he's bowing to us ? By Jove ! 
that's ugly." 

We were in the village of Wimille at the 
moment, and had met a Frenchman upon a 
little chestnut cob, which, whatever w^ere his 
other qualities, entertained no good opinion 
of motor cars, I could see. Now rearing 
straight on end, now lashing out, now whip- 
ping round, now bucking from sheer light- 
ness of heart, the cob had thrown his 
awkward rider heavily to the ground almost 
before I could brake the car and bring her 
to a standstill. For a moment I thought 
the fellow was surely killed ; but he was upon 
his feet again while Harry ran to him, and 
his avalanche of words gave comforting 
evidence that no great injury was done. 
When he had recovered his breath, and a 
villager had caught the light-hearted cob, he 
began to listen to our apologies. Let me say 
a word about him, as he stands there, for we 
shall meet him again upon the road to 

A man of the middle height, with a 
sinuous, wiry figure, a face bronzed by the 
sun, and blackened by the work he did at the 
foreshore soundings — for I had no doubt 
from the first that he came from Escalles 
and the Government's business there ; very 
deep-set, clever eyes beneath a forehead 
round and shallow and by no means clever. 
In type a Creole, whose " colour " you might 
detect in the thick lips and the angular nails 
of well-shaped hands. Hair matted and 
curly ; great breadth of shoulders coupled to 
a long, thin neck which seemed to detach 
his head from his body and to permit it to 
strike all sorts of odd attitudes. In short, a 
man of taciturn aspect whom you would have 
passed a hundred times without notice in 
any crowd — yet one, and this was the 
surprise of it, whose face was known to me 
as the face of someone who had played a 
part in my life, but whose very name I had 
forgotten. Behold me staring at him in 
mute amazement while Harry racked his very 



soul for new and ungrammatical apologies, 
and I had not a word to add to them. 

The Frenchman heard us to the end 
sullenly, brushed the dust from his coat, 
sprang upon his cob, struck the beast 
savagely with a steel rod he carried in his 
hand, and without a single word went can- 
tering away towards Calais just as Harry 
wound up with an expression of sorrow 
which would have brought the Academy of 
France to a premature grave. Here we were 
left, we two, staring foolishly at each other 
and at the peasant who had caught the horse. 
A more ridiculous situation is not to be con- 
ceived. Harry saluted it with a roar of 
laughter which might have been heard at 
Cape Gris-Nez. 

" My French, my French — oh, blessed 
tongue ! Has he gone to fetch the gendarmes, 
do you think ? " 

I scarcely answered him. The car was 
away again in a cloud of dust before I spoke. 

" Who could the fellow have been ? Don't 
laugh at me — I have seen him somewhere. I 
could not tell you where if my hfe depended 
upon it." 

" But it doesn't depend npon it. Do not 
court reminiscences, my Alfred, on such a 
day. "We have done all that civility required, 
and more. Heard civility ever such a 
splendid use of the imperfect subjunctive ? " 

" Imperfect, no doubt. Hence the gallop. 
He is riding away to Escalles to say that a 
ferocious Englishman is killing his mother 
tongue in the village of Wimille. Your 
speech will amuse a town to-night. You 
serve humanity, gratis." 

Harry took a cigarette from his case, and 
realising the impossibility of obtaining a 
light in a car travelling twenty miles an 
hour, he chewed it philosophically and 
turned the banter with a new story. 

" Do you know," he said, "that fellow 
spoke English when he was on the ground." 

" English ? " 

" I will — well, affirm it. He said a word 
common to some emergencies o.f hfe — 
amongst laymen." 

" Anything else ? " 

" Oh, yes, a good deal more. Don't ask 
me to repeat it." 

" Stand excused. I knew that I had seen 
him somewhere. The face is as familiar as 
it can be." 

" A good many faces are. I have known 
men that said the same of every pretty girl 
they met. Such a habit leads to unpleasant- 

"It will not do so in this case, for I 

remember my man. He is Robert Jeffery, 
who crammed with me at Webb's." 

" Call him Robinson Crusoe, and I will be 
his man Friday. What put that tale into 
your head ? " 

" The man's face. I could have picked 
him out of a hundred. He went up for 
Woolwich and was ploughed. A clever man, 
as a mathematician above the average, but* 
his taste in claret was too good " 

Harry sympathised always when you told 
him of distress. 

" Poor chap ! " he said quickly ; " it is the 
end of the story which I generally hear in 
those cases." 

" Yes, but not in this one. What is the 
man doing at Calais, at the Admiralty works, 
too ? " 

" Carrying a steel rod, apparently. Also 
riding a horse. My dear fellow, why speculate ? 
There is the sea, and beyond it the odorous 
town of Boulogne ! Let us lunch, and 
speculate afterwards." 

I did not answer him. It seemed to me 
that the face of Robert JefPery followed me 
to the town, and that the man eat at my side 
even while I ate. Nor, to this hour, can I 
account for a premonition so remarkable. 



I HAD been in Calais exactly three weeks 
when Parson Harry Fordham fell foul of my 
motor-car ; and, as far as I could see, the 
distant winter might find me still in that 
exceedingly uninteresting memorial to Queen 
Mary's prophecy. An ugly fall with the 
Fitz William hounds, an ever-anxious mother, 
the impossibihty of serving my regiment 
with a deficiency of ribs and a collar-bone 
which the faculty obstinately described as 
" broken," had sent me from England in the 
February of the year to join the sun-seekers 
at Nice, and afterwards to imagine myself 
an invalid at Pan. Upon the links at the 
latter town I first met Colonel Lepeletier 
and his daughter. She taught him the 
English golf, she said; and her dear father 
was so rapidly improved that a week found 
him in all the bunkers, and in a fortnight he 
had broken his clubs. I complimented the 
fine old fellow upon this excellent achieve- 
ment and his admirable control of temper, 
and was not surprised that the audacity 
amused him. "A game for children," he 
said apologetically, "and yet one which 
makes little things seem great to us> I am 



ashamed of myself, but to-morrow I shall 
play again.'' 

It was good to hear him ; for I agreed with 
Harry Fordham that Colonel Lepeletier was 
one of God's best works, an honest gentleman. 
A " hall-mark " man, the parson called him ; 
and I would dub them both as he dubbed one. 
In all my life I thought that I had never 
*seen a prettier thing than this spectacle of 
a little French girl teaching her less agile 
father the mysteries of golf. There is, I 
suppose, one hour in every man's life when 
he finds such a picture and such a thought 
as I found upon the links at Pau. The 
more sacred impulses are least to be written 
about ; I hesitate to speak of mine when 
they do not concern this story. But let it 
be recorded that I lingered a month in Pau, 
and that where Agnes Lepeletier walked, 
there went my world. Silently, surely, un- 
knowingly, perhaps, that understanding, so 
subtile, so intimate, so true, began to mould 
our wills. The day when impatience to see 
my brother-officers and my regiment chafed 
and galled was forgotten and unmourned. 
A rich man (for that crime the world has 
laid at my door), I was my own master — to 
serve or not to serve as the impulse dictated ; 
to forget my home in England if I had the 
mind to ; to marry or give in marriage as 
the whim should take me. But the time for 
serious things was not yet. I was at Pau, 
and Agnes Lepeletier had become my com- 
panion. I asked nothing more of Nature or 
of man. 

The weeks passed quickly, all too quickly, 
we said, when Oscar Lepeletier told us at 
dinner, one night in the first week of May, 
that his work called him back to Paris, and 
from Paris might send him to the exaspera- 
tingly unromantic town of Calais. I knew 
nothing of his reasons, nor did he seek my 
confidence. But to Agnes I said, '* I will 
come to Calais " ; and there was that upon 
her face which could make my pulse beat the 
faster and send me to the booking-office as 
men rarely go. So behold the new scene. 
The Colonel at his official house which over- 
looks the Jardin Richelieu, the English 
" Sir Capitain " at the Hotel Meurice, which, 
should you stop in Calais (and may the gods 
forbid ! ) you will find in the Kue de Guise. 
Had it been the Black Country, to me it had 
been an Eden ; for Agnes was there, and 
when a week had passed, Harry Fordham, 
the king of parsons, was my fellow adven- 
turer for every enterprise. 

He had left Cottesbrook, in Northamp- 
tonshire (for he holds our family living 

there) to visit an unknown destination in 
Switzerland ; but being exceedingly ill upon 
the steamer, the impulse took him to 
come and see me in Calais. A decent 
horse, to which the Colonel introduced him ; 
some pleasant tennis parties contrived by 
Mademoiselle Agnes ; an heroic attempt to 
build a golf links on the sandy dunes to 
the west of Calais ; perchance pure pity for 
my solitary condition, kept him in the name 
of charity at the Hotel Meurice, where I 
had bivouacked. One excuse and the other 
delayed his return to England ; and when 
June came we had formed a habit of the 
town, and no longer detected its deficiencies. 
For that matter, Harry was no less frequent 
a visitor to Colonel Lepeletier's house 
than I had become. We dined there twice 
a week, breakfasted in the shade of the 
garden as often, were unceasing in our quest 
of unfamiliar pilgrimage and lazy picnic. But 
Harry was the more welcome guest at the 
house, as I knew from the beginning of it ; 
and if the kindlier greeting he received 
was spoken by Colonel Lepeletier's lips, 
none the less it threatened to be the dis- 
turbing element, not only of my holiday, 
but of my life. 

That Lepeletier's attitude baffled me, I 
confess unhesitatingly. My position, at least, 
I argued, might have won upon his consider- 
ation ; for few that came to his house enjoyed 
such advantages of fortune as my birthright 
had thrust upon me. Nevertheless, this fine 
old fellow, who had loved to play the father's 
part to ,me at Pau, was here so changed in 
Calais that I began to doubt my very senses 
and the estimate of him they had formed for 
me. Frigidly polite, always ready with his 
hospitalities, sometimes melting to his old 
geniality and confidence, there remained in 
my mind the conviction that I was not a 
welcome guest at his house, and that my 
departure from Calais would be pleasing to 
him. If I delayed to perceive this, or to be 
aware of the true state of the case, until the 
situation threatened to become intolerable, 
liemember the old fable that Love is blind — 
upon which I put the sure fact that my 
interest in Agnes Lepeletier had now passed 
the bounds of mere friendship and entered 
into that intimate dominion of a woman's 
heart which one in all the world may share 
with her. I w^as blind, because my eyes had 
other things to see. To awake was to come 
down from the gardens of my dreams to the 
sandy town of Calais and its hotel. I 
determined that very day to speak to 
Lepeletier and to make an end of it. The 

'A game for children,' he said apologetically. 



occasion was the dinner at his house. The 
opportunity should be found for me by 
Harry Fordham. 

The Colonel dined at seven o'clock, and it 
was at half -past six when Harry, black now in 
the prim clothes of orthodoxy, came to my 
room to "call beginners," as he put it in 
the jargon which amateur theatricals had 
taught him. I had just finished dressing, 
and, seeing that it was but five minutes from 
the Hdtel Meurice to the house by the 
Jardin Eichelieu, I suggested that we should 
take a turn down the Place d'Armes and 
chat as we went. " For, Harry," said I, 
" you must be serious to-night, more serious 
than ever you were in all your life." 

He laughed and linked his arm in mine. 
" The gods shall weep for my melancholy," 
he said. " Behold these tears upon a virgin 
cheek ! " 

I told him to have done with his nonsense 
and to listen to me. It was a simple story. 
He had observed Lepeletier's manner towards 
me ; he must guess the reason. He knew 
why I was in Calais. If anything lay 
behind the ColoneFs manner but the plain 
intimation that I was not the husband he 
would choose for his daughter, I should be 
glad to know of it. Could Harry suggest 
anything ? In short, could he help me ? 
To all of which he listened with that 
unabashed merriment which nothing could 
moderate or control. He would not be 

" Oh, man ! " he exclaimed, when my 
patience was nigh exhausted, "man that 
is born of woman, art not blind as any camel 
with one eye ? Attend now to my argument. 
What befalls him who takes a cleek when he 
should use a brassey ? Assuredly he is 
bunkered, even as thou art, my Damon. 
But let him take the proper club, and lo ! 
there is papa, and papa's darling, and the 
darling of papa's darling in a threesome of 
their heart's choice. Play the game. Captain 
Alfred, play the game " 

" If you were not my friend, Harry, I 
would not go another step with you." 

He affected great . sorrow, but so drolly 
that I could not but laugh with him. 

" 3IeA mdpa, med maxima culpa. I will 
be very solemn, brother. Let me tell you of 
a man in love who is afraid to ask papa, 
and who, thereby, provoketh papa to im- 
patience. Ye goats and sheep ! don't you 
see, my Alfred, that the old gentleman is 
dying for the word, the blessed word ? 
You are the laggard. Ponder upon the 
cutlets you have eaten in that same house, 

the excellent Burgundy you have drunk. 
Is mon pere to sit for ever, the spectator 
of your billing and cooing ? Not so, by 
my halibut ! " 

A great light came to me even of his 

"Upon my honour, I never thought of 
that. Do you really think it's true, Harry ? " 

" If I were a layman I would go nap upon 
it. And why not ? Here is the prettiest 
little girl in all France — I say so ; do not 
contradict me — the prettiest little girl in 
all France, cooling her heels ^oh, phrase 
most elegant ! — on the doorstep of the beast's 
house, while the beast plays tennis, swims, 
rows, drives a stink-pot, and does anything 
but go to her papa to say, ' Honourable sir, 
give me your daughter to wife, for I have no 
wild oats in my garner, and I am of discreet 
age, or should be, and there is gold in my 
cellars (if I choose to keep it there).' Man, 
you're a catch, and you don't know it. To 
Lepeletier, a milord whose money-bags jingle ; 
to little Agnes, the fairy prince whose ribs 
were hurt as he fell out of heaven. Can't 
you see it ? Are you blind ? Must I do the 
business for you ? Why, the old fellow's 
dying, going into rapid consumption, because 
you forbid him to say, ' Bless you, my 
children ! ' " 

He stopped, for very want of breath, 
I believe, and seeing that I had nothing to 
say — for I was bewildered with the novelty 
of it, bewildered beyond understanding or 
clear thought — he put his hand upon my 
shoulder and compelled me to look him in 
the face. Byes more honest I have never 

" Do you want the girl ? do you mean to 
marry her ? " he asked despotically. 

" Don't be a fool, Harry— at least admit 
my honour." 

" Admitted — and underlined. This very 
night thy latch-key shall be required of 
thee. Come on. Sir Romeo, I will even 
punish the Bordeaux while you throw the 
glove to papa. It is a clean glove, at any 

My head was too full of the surprise of it 
to answer him, and once more he linked his 
arm in mine and set out for the Jardin 
Richelieu. His talk was all of Agnes now, 
of her, and that which he was pleased to call 
the right ascension of the planet Venus. 
Nevertheless, a note of new gravity rang 
presently in harmony with his badinage, and 
the jester's cloak fell to reveal the counsellor. 

" A man of thirty-one can do many things 
well, especially if he has the money. Mar- 



riage is one of them. Wild oats, kept until 
they become riches, feed the honour of home 
and fatherhood. You are growing lime, 
my Alfred. Life is mnui. You are like 
the millionaire's child who cried because it 
wanted to want something. Twenty thou- 
sand a year, the best place in Northampton- 
shire, a doting mother, are knocking the 
iron out of your will. I find you moody 
and contemplative — symptoms of repletion. 
x\s you are, you will never do anything in 
life. If they give you a brass plate or — 
horriUle dictuI—SL couple of plaster angels 
in Cottesbrook Church, it will be more than 
you deserve. A wife would change all this. 
It is even possible that she would make you 
do something to astonish me. I have 
thought of it often, but no man has a right 
to speak such thoughts. Judge of my joy, 
as they say in the fairy books, when I came 
to Calais "^ and found you with one hand 
already in the matrimonial lucky bag." 
" Unlucky bag, sometimes, Harry." 
" Tais-toi. Here is our exception. Bo 
you not understand that you are winning 
the sweetest little woman in all France ? " 
" I have a shrew^d suspicion of it." 
" One who will say, ' Life is not in the 
newspaper or the clubs, but here in a good 
woman's heart.' " 

" An excellent sentiment." 
" One who will tell you that you, Alfred 
Hilliard, of the Eighteenth Hussars, captain, 
must do something for the island they call 
England, and something for the sake of the 
name you bear." 

" I cannot expect her to be over-anxious 
about our side of the Channel. She is born 
of France, at least." 

" Rubbish, my son ! A woman is of her 
husband's nation. It says little for the 
husband if she be not. At Cottesbrook she 
will babble patriotism in the prettiest broken 
English possible. Do not contradict me. 
A parson who baptises and buries them sees 
both ends of the stick, as it were. You are 
marrying a good girl — tell yourself that 
when papa asks about your expectations 
to-night. The old fellow w^ould grow an 
inch if he could see your banking account, 
cher Alfred." 

I resented the suggestion — would have 
resented it hotly but for the fact that we 
stood now upon the threshold of the house, 
and could see the candles upon the dinner- 
table whereat we w^ere about to sit. The 
nadir of infamy surely is touched in that 
plea, "I am a rich man ; give me your 
daughter to wife." 

Harry implied no such vulgarity when he 
fell to his bantering humour, as I would 
have admitted in a cooler moment ; and 
now, silencing me with a gesture, he opened 
the gate of Lepeletier's garden. 

" Hush ! we are observed," he said, with 
finger upraised mockingly. " The band does 
not play but the curtain rises. I wish you 
luck, old fellow, luck from the very bottom 
of my heart." 

I knew that he did ; knew that there was 
no truer friend of mine in all Europe than 
Harry Fordham, the parson of Cottesbrook. 
Nevertheless, I went into the old barrack- 
like house with heavy steps and a foreboding 
I could but ill define. 

All Harry's philosophy was true, every 
word of it. I knew that the one w^oman in 
all the world for me was the one I was about 
to meet in the little drawing-room beyond 
the hall ; I knew that I could speak to her 
father with an authority of my position 
which few might hope for ; and" yet my 
expectation stumbled, halted, went laggingly 
and obstinate to the salon. Perchance the 
house itself helped my mood. There is no 
more gloomy house in all the cities. From 
every square and hideous window you look 
upon the docks and squalid basins of Calais 
Harbour. The great buttresses of the grey 
citadel are its neighbour^ for the left hand ; 
the arid Jardin Richelieu mocks its pastoral 
pretensions upon the right. I never entered 
it yet but it seemed to carry me to some 
prison-house, some silent gate, beyond its 
portals. And I am glad because I shall 
never pass its door again to my life's end. 

Agnes was at the piano as we entered ; ^ a 
little, winsome figure in a gown of muslin 
worn as only a Frenchwoman knows how to 
wear the poorer stuffs and make them rich. 
A simple circlet of pearls about her throat 
was her only ornament of jewels ; but she 
wore one white rose in her pretty brown hair, 
and that which her face lacked of colour (for 
it was always a pale face, I thought) she made 
good in expressive eyes and the little affec- 
tionate mannerisms which are a woman's 
power. She had a habit, I remember, of 
laying her hand upon my arm when she 
spoke to me, and excitement could empha- 
sise the touch until it became almost a grip 
which seemed to act upon every nerve in my 
body. Quick in all her actions, always at 
the high place of her spirits, capable of deep 
feeling, nevertheless her quick, womanly 
sympathy, developed to maturity in her girl- 
hood, was for me her abiding characteristic. 
It was no doll's face that looked up at us as 



we enfcered the drawing-room, but a face 
that a man might remember when others 
more beautiful were forgotten. 

" Why do you always come when I am 
practising, Captain Hilliard ? " she asked, as 
she held out an ungloved hand and with the 
other scattered the music upon the piano. 
" That is the * March from Tannhaiiser,' and 
I hate it." 

" Then w^hy do you play it, Mademoiselle 
Agnes ? " 

" Because it makes a noise, and you cannot 
hear the wrong notes. Wagner wrote it for 
me to drown the bugles in the citadel. Is 
Monsieur Harry musical — oh, but I'm sure 
he's not." 

Harry, sitting in a low chair, looked for 
all the world like some great, fair-haired 

" Not musical, w4ien I am the father of 
Gregorians ? " he cried, in affected indigna- 
tion. " Do you know that I once wrote an 
oratorio, mademoiselle, and that the critics 
pronounced it beneath contempt ? I have 
considered myself musical from that day. 
Horrible term, isn't it ? Suggests a musical 
box in your chest. You turn the handle 
and the box plays ' The Carnival of Venice.' 
There's an idea for a patent. Musical sweets 
guaranteed to play ' We Won't Go Home 
till Morning,' wiien you've swallowed them." 

Agnes, who spoke good English, for she 
had been educated in the convent at Isle- 
worth — though one of the old French Pro- 
testants — was utterly unable to follow^ Master 
Harry's idiom. 

" I believe that you play beautifully," she 
said in protest. "You shall try after dinner." 

" I will render you the ' Lost Chord ' with 
one finger — the missing notes to be found 
by tlie imagination. Alfred will supply an 
assorted bass. He is very good on the lower 
*G.' Ask him." 

She told him that she would insist upon it, 
and had turned round to make me her ally, 
when Colonel Lepeletier entered the room, 
and with him there stood the very man 
whose horse had sliied at my automobile in 
the village of Wimille that morning, Robert 
Jeffery, of Webb's aforetime, the rejected 
of Woolwich, yet here masking under a 
French name, and presented to me as one of 
France's most skilful engineers. I stared at 
the Colonel in amazement. Why did he 
introduce his friend to me as a French- 
man ? " 

"Monsieur Sadi Martel — Captain Hilliard. 
How ! you have met before, gentlemen ? " 

It was upon my tongue to say that we had 

met many times before ; but I controlled 
myself, perhaps as a tribute to my curiosity, 
and in a word related the events of the 

*' Monsieur Martel, I fear, must bear me a 
grudge — his horse objects to hmovations, 
Colonel. I am glad of this opportunity to 
make my apologies." 

Jetfery, for so I insisted on calling him, 
nodded his head in a gesture which was 
meant to be curt, I thought, and spoke to 
the Colonel in rapid French. Then he 
turned to Agnes and left me with her 

" A fortunate meeting, but I had no idea 
of it," said the Colonel, as he led me away 
from them to the window. "My friend is 
one of the engineers at the harbour works. 
You will not often meet so clever a man." 

" A Frenchman, of course ? " 

" On his father's side. His mother was 
an American. You will discover that he 
shares the vices of some of my countrymen. 
He has yet to understand the merits of 
England ; you must convert him. His 
father went to Mexico with the unfortunate 
Maximilian, but the son has been many 
years in France and has almost forgotten his 
accent. A most interesting man, whose 
name Europe will hear one day." 

I said nothing, waiting for him to con- 
fcinue. But I remembered that it was 
sixteen years ago almost to a month since 
Robert Jetfery had left England, without 
reputation or prospect. The man who stood 
over there talking volubly to Mademoiselle 
Agnes was Sadi Martel, and not Robert 
Jeffery, the Colonel said. Again I wondered 
at the coincidence, and was wondering still 
when the servant announced dinner. 

We went to dinner, Agnes, to my satisfac- 
tion, upon Harry's arm ; and being seated, 
I found myself upon the left-hand side of 
the table, and so far removed from the 
engineer that politeness demanded no effort 
to converse with him. Already w^e had 
been given to understand that he spoke 
little English ; and Harry's frank admission, 
in turn, that he never yet met a French- 
man who could understand his French, 
broke the ice ; and each held forth in the 
sure and ceitain conviction that his neigh- 
bour could not contradict him. Once or 
twice in a lull of tlieir talk I found Jeffery's 
eyes turned curiously upon me ; but whenever 
our glances met he would avoid my question 
in a new outburst of declamation and argu- 
ment. His volubility astonished me, for at 
Webb's we had spoken of him as a silent man. 



' She touched my arm with her hand, in one of those gestures 1 love." 

" I am interested in your engineer,'' I said 
to Agnes anon. " Tell me about him." 

She touched my arm with her hand, in 
one of those gestures I love, and answered 
me provokingly. 

"If you listen, he will tell you about 

" But I can't understand a half he says." 

" Are you sure that you lose anything ? " 

" Your father says that I do. His name 
is to be heard all over Europe.'' 

"Then he must have invented a new 
speaking-trumpet. He is so clever you 
know, down below the ground." 

" A good many men are clever there. 
Mademoiselle Agnes. We admit it generously. 
Have you known Monsieur Martel long r " 

" Since the works began. He has in- 
vented a great machine for digging up the 
coal. Why, are you curious ? You should 
ask him." 

" He seems to interest you, at least." 

" At least, sir ? Oh, I am least, then ! " 

" I mean that you like him." 

"Very much ; I like all clever men." 

" A woman believes every man to be 
clex^er if he tells her so." 

" Does she ? Then why do you not tell 
nie that you are clever ? " 

"I must have forgotten to mention it. 

I will begin to-morrow. The' life and times 
of Alfred Hilliard, soldier." 

Harry, overhearing us, put in his word. 

" The life and high old times," he corrected. 
" I have often thought of that for a title 
when a bishop is to be written up." 

" You are flippant, Harry. Does Monsieur 
Martel forgive your apologies ? " 

" He does not forgive your car ! " 

"Ask him to be introduced to it to- 

" Tell me the French for that. Mademois- 
elle Agnes." 

" You would never remember it." 

" No, but you say it so charmingly." 

" Harry, Harry — I listen " 

" A pernicious habit 1 Do I intrude ? I 
will even make my neighbour miserable." 

He turned to Martel, and I to Agnes. H 
there be anything more exasperating under 
God's heaven than a dinner-table flirtation, 
I w^ould gladly know of it. You break a 
petal of romance —the butler cries, " Thick or 
clear ? " You touch a vein of sentiment — a 
brute says, " 'Ock or sherry? " You rise to 
heights of understanding— the flunkey brings 
you to ground again with " Saddle of mutton, 
sir ? " Or all is going swimmingly when your 
host's voice is raised to pronounce a verdict, 
and you, all confusion in discovery, must 



cry "Aye," or "Nay," as the case may be. 
Happily, I sought no dinner-table flirtation 
with Agnes. There was a deeper, truer voice 
of delight in that unspoken intimacy, in the 
thought that she, a little, unknown French 
girl to me three months ago, but now the one 
figure of my content— she, who first had' 
taught me to say, "For this a woman was 
born into the world"— -sat there at my side, 
and that I might prison in memory every 
note of her laughter, and make my own 
every vision of her changing beauty. We 
would not tell our story, for it were better 
untold. The book wherein we wrote should 
be tlie book of our lives. I think, even 
then, that her content was linked to mine — 
for good or ill, in an abiding purpose. 

It was a habit in the Colonel's house that 
we lingered at the dinner-table but a moment 
wlien Agnes had left it ; for the old soldier 
did not smoke, and while he tolerated our 
cigarettes, we conceded much to his habit, 
and usually denied ourselves until we were 
upon the road to the Meurice again. It was 
good to see Parson Harry, who surpaosed the 
chimneys, protesting that the last thing in 
all the world he cared about was the nar- 
cotic they call tobacco. Upon this evening, 
which I have twenty reasons to remember, 
I can recollect that^ Lepeletier permitted 
Harry and the other to follow his daughter 
to the drawing-room ; but this was the sur- 
prise of it, no sooner was I about to imitate 
them than he touched me on the shoulder 
and pointed to an empty chair by his ow^n. 

" Let me see you smoke a cigarette. 
Captain — I should like it." 

I sat dow^n without a word and fumbled 
for my cigarette-case. A first drill, the 
initiating hour of riding-school, a debut as 
a speaker upon a platform, occurred to my 
mind as child's tasks beside this ordeal. 
Instinctively I knew that the Colonel was 
to speak to me of Agnes. I can see him to 
this hour, with his trim, pointel, black beard, 
his sallow face, his large and kindly eyes, 
his nervous, white hand tapping the white 
cloth restlessly. A gentleman ? Aye, there 
never was a truer. And he invited my 
confidence. I felt that I could speak to 
him as to my own father — had my father 
been living. 

" Yes," he said, " I have never learned to 
smoke — my misfortune, Captain. Tobacco 
is the handmaiden of Eeason. A man can 
smoke with his enemy at the gate ! Other- 
wise he comes to blows. Let me see you 

" I am never anything else at your house. 

Colonel. When you come to England, to 
Cottesbrook Castle, I despair of my chances 
—after this." 

He turned away from me to lift the shade 
of one of the candles. I thought that he was 
a little embarrassed, and I was sorry for 
him. My own condition was lamentable. I 
was hot and cold, excited and depressed, 
hopeful and desponding, while a man could 
have counted ten. To this does convention- 
ality bring us. Why did I ' not say to him 
there and then, " I want xignes, I won't 
hear ' No ' ; she is mine " ? Heaven knows 
why it remained unsaid. 

" I should like to see your English home," 
he continued by and by, speaking in so low 
a voice that I must bend my ear to follow 
him. " A soldier, however, is less his own 
master than any other man. They keep me 
here in Calais and do not ask me if I wish 
to go away. Next month, next year, I may 
be a free man. How can I make promises, 
Capfcain ? " 

" Oh, but you are coming to me some day, 
if I have to write to the General myself. It's 
my due. Colonel. You wouldn't disappoint 
me. I think Mademoiselle Agnes will have 
a word to say on that matter," 

He raised his hand as though to stop me. 
The unshaded candle sent a ray of pale light 
upon a face which, I thought, had grown 
old suddenly. 

" I repeat, I must repeat. Captain, that I 
can make no promises. You will not ask me 
why — you will know that I am compelled to 
be frank with you. I wish that you could 
understand me. It is not to be, however. 
When our duty stands between ns and our 
wishes, we may complain, but we must not 
rebel. I do not forget that we are both sol- 
diers, and that one of us will think it wiser 
to return to his own country by and by. 
But I would give much to say, ' Stay here, 
make this your home.' Will you believe 
that. Captain Hilliard ? " 

I do not know^ how I answ^ered him. If 
he had struck me on the face, the surprise of 
it would not have been more amazing. It 
was a point-blank refusal of my unspoken 
request. He 'had said " No," as plainly as 
any man ever said it in this world. The hot 
blood of my race rushed to my face, choking 
tact and reason and argument, I stood up 
and faced him, yet was sorry for him in 
spite of myself. 

" Colonel," I said, " do you wish me to 
put the only interpretation possible upon 
those words ? " 

" If you please, Captain." 



" You prefer that I should leave Calais ? " 

'' I must prefer it '' 

"You have said as niuch to your 
daughter ? " 

He turned away. 

" My daughter will understand/' he said, 
but every word cost him an effort. 

" Then I am not to broach the subject to 
her ? " 

He started at the question and looked me 
full in the face. 

" As a man of honour, you will say 
nothing to her." 

" Leaving that to you ? " 

" I understand my duty, sir." 

" Forgive me if my understanding is less 
clear. I shall leave for London in three 
days' time. It will be possible for you to 
come to another determination before I go — 
in which case you will find me at the 

" Entertain no hopes, I beg of you. My 
decision is inflexible." 

" I shall give you three days, nevertheless. 
If I do not see Mademoiselle Agnes 
again •" 

But I halted suddenly, and as for the rest 
of it, that remained unspoken. Indeed, I 
remember little more of it save that I shook 
hands wdth him and went to the door. 

But I saw him for an instant, the figure 
of a weary old man, with the wan light cast 
upward upon a face of marble. And even 
then I knew how much the night had cost 



I LEFT the house without another word, 
and sending no message even to Harry the 
Parson, I went out into the clear night, and 
struck a road that should bring me down 
toward the Casino and the western beach. 
Never did man so welcome God's fresh air, 
or the cooling breezes from the- sea, as I 
welcomed them in that solitary walk. Not 
80 much had the blow struck upon the 
merely selfish matter of my interests ; but 
at my pride, even, it may be, I think now, 
at my self-conceit. Yesterday I had called 
Lepeletier intimate among my friends. To- 
night — to-night, I ground my heel into the 
gravel by the seashore and said, as young 
men will, that he should repay to the utmost 
farthing. Never once did I stay to ask 
myself. Why is this thing so ? What fact, 
or lie, or interest has so changed a man in 

twenty-four hours, that he, who yesterday had 
called me son, showed me his door to-day — 
civilly, if you will, yet none the less an open 
door ? Anger thrust out the saner figures of 
my thoughts. He had insulted me and I 
would answer him. 

To many a lover, I suppose, has there 
come such an hour as I spent that night 
upon Calais beach — where all sorts of vain 
oaths were sworn vainly, and chivalry could 
colour a fine romance for me, and f called 
the heavens to witness that no man yet 
born should stand between me and her I 
loved. Let the impression of it be effaced 
as the folly is forgotten. Rather would I 
remember the north wind as it tumbled the 
breakers upon the harbour piers, or sent a 
rime of spindrift to tauten many a well- 
drawn sail. How the music of the pebbles, 
rolling long-drawn notes of melancholy, 
could touch a plaintive chord, deep and 
human, in my own heart ! The lights of 
England shone for me with a new meaning 
as I stood sentinel upon the deserted sands. 
For there was the Foreland, magnificent 
above them all, and the star wdiich marked 
the Goodwins; and other constellations as of 
ships passing eastward, westward, to the 
harbour gates beyond the oceans, to the 
wharves and quays of London town herself. 
Behind me lay Calais, a little group as of 
lanterns hovering above the marshland. A 
band played in the Casino, and its jarring 
gaieties struck a discord upon the sea's un- 
changing voice. But I thought of France no 
longer with affection ; and there came to me 
out of the night a consolation of my country, 
of her resources, and of her power — even, it 
may be, some surpassing gratitude to that 
sea whereby I stood, the rampart impassable 
of our kingship, the grave and the glory of 
that multitude of England's sons who had 
wrought that kingship might be ours. For 
the lights of my country spoke of the green 
lanes, of the homes of England beyond ; and 
my heart went out to them as ever it will go 
homeward in the moments of our grief. 

An hour, at least, I watched the ebbing 
seas, the play of light upon the waters, the 
paths of the great steamers that hurried on 
in mystery as though land and the peoples of 
the land were of no concern to them. And 
when the first impression of it had passed I 
found a cooler head and a clearer wit to 
grapple with that which had befallen me. 
After all, I said, I had acted just as some 
impatient schoolboy, out of temper with his 
lesson and obstinate beyond knowledge. 
Another man would have had it out with 



Lepeletier there and then, would have put 
him to the question and demanded his 
reasons, and sought, it might be, to obtain a 
new argument and a new verdict. But all 
my life had been a sop to the gratification of 
my desires. I had yet to live the day when 
my mother would rebuke the veriest whim 
of mine. My word was law at Cottesbrook, 
and even in my regiment the yoke of 
obedience had ever been made light by a 
tactful and indulgent colonel. Gold is 
but a poor mirror in w^hich to see our- 
selves. Until Lepeletier asked me to quit 
his house (for so I put it to myself in my 
account of it) I had been satisfied with the 
picture my mirror gave me ; but now it 
changed upon the instant — to show me that 
of a man unattaining, resourceless, van- 
quished at a word, unable to withstand even 
a whisper of dissent. Shame of my weakness 
rather than self-pity prevailed when my 
anger cooled. How Parson Harry would 
laugh at me ! And what would Agnes think 
of her knight, who rode away from the lists 
because a glove was thrown to him ? It 
needed but this to make my humiliation 

The harbour clocks, the great bell of the 
Cathedral booming above them, struck the 
hour of ten, when I retraced my steps to the 
Meurice and asked if Mr. Fordham had 
returned. They told me that he had not, 
but that a gentleman, Martel by name, was 
waiting for me in my sitting-room and had 
been there since nine o'clock. To say that 
such a visit astonished me would be to 
express myself but ill. The man was Robert 
Jeffery, after all, then ! He had come to 
beg my secrecy ; he could have come for 
nothing else. That much I owed him for 
the sake of auld lang syne. I said that 
his secret should be safe with me, and, 
impatient for the meeting, I went upstairs 
with quick steps. It was Eobert Jeffery, 
after all. 

He was in my room, as they said ; and he 
had not forgotten the privileges of a rusted 
acquaintance. I found him, his black cape 
unbuttoned, one of my cigars between his 
fingers, one of my books in his hands, just 
as I had found him many a day at Webb's, 
when we promised him a career, and mathema- 
ticians shed their benedictions upon him. 
All the old effrontery, the old reticence w^ere 
there. In five minutes he would know my 
business at Calais — I should not learn his in 
as many years. 

" Come in, old sport ! " he cried, with all 
the splendour of his impudence, as I entered 

the room and shut the door after me. 
" Come and try one of tliese weeds and make 
yourself at home. You're about the last 
man I expected to see in France to-day. A 
lucky meeting, eh ? Well, I'm not so sure 
about it." 

I threw off my light dust-coat, and, the 
night being very hot and close, I went to 
open one of the windows which, evidently, 
he had shut ; but he stopped me almost with 
an angry gesture. 

" Not so, my Captain — you are a captain, 
eh, Hilliard ? Well, spare my feelings, then, 
and keep the window shut. I've got a cold 
in my head, and I don't want all Calais to 
hear my mother tongue. Good Heavens ! I'd 
forgotten I was an Englishman until I saw^ 
your mug on the Paris road. Fancy that, 
after sixteen years. Why, man, it makes a 
boy of me again," 

There was all the old conceit, the offensive 
brutality of manner in the fellow's speech, 
w^iich had contrived to make him one of the 
most unpopular men that ever set foot in 
Webb's house ; but for the nonce I passed 
by his impertinence, and lighting a cigar I 
wheeled an armchair round and so sat facing 

" Well," I said quietly, " and why have 
you come here ? " 

He blinked and looked down at the 
glowing tip of his cigar. The blue veins in 
his thin hands reminded me of ancient 
prejudices — but they were the fruit of his 
manners, and not of his birth. We had 
called him " The Panther " at Webb's. No 
word could have described him so well. 

" Why have I come here ? That's an odd 
question. I thought you'd be glad to see 
me. Anything else ? No, I think not, 
Alfred Hilliard." 

" Let's see," said I, " it would be sixteen 
years since you left Webb's ? That's a long 
time. I didn't remember your name this 
morning — until you'd ridden away." 

He threw the ash from his cigar with an 
odd little jerk and laughed hardly. 

"Who's the parson chap—the man who 
speaks French like a bullfighter ? I like the 
cut of his jib. Is he a chum of yours ?" 
" He is one of my oldest friends." 
" So ; and you're holiday-making in Calais. 
Rum place for a picnic, eh ? The great 
Sahara and Southend-on-Sea playing pitch- 
and-toss together. You've reasons — I won't 
quarrel with them ; but the other chap, 
he's peculiar tastes, hasn't he ? " 
" Do his tastes concern you ? " 
" Me — good Lord ! If he drank himself 



to death to-morrow in buttermilk, wliat's 
that to me ? Nice chap, though. 1 thought 
he was going to put me through the 
Catechism when he picked me up this 
morning. KSay, you've a good car. You 
didn't buj that at a dime store, I'll wager. 
My park hack took the same view. He 
isn't used to money." 

" I hope you weren't hurt ? " said I. 

" Ask the steel bar I was carrying. I 
think you bruised it a bit. But I'm an old 
one. They've chucked me off a derrick 

" ' You won't be so glad you're an Englishman next year, pard.' 

twice, and here I am. Do I look the 
worse ? " 

"Not a great deal. It's my turn for 
questions. What have you been doing these 
sixteen years ? " 

" Learning to become a Frenchman. You 

turned me out of England. By ! I hated 

some of you. But you weren't among 'em. 
I always thought you were a gentleman. 
The others — well, I'll wipe my boots on 
them some day, as sure as the Lord made us 
of a different colour." 

There was always, I knew, in this man's 

mind the sore of his colour and of that 
which he believed to be the due of it. He 
had told me, even as a boy, that he hated 
the "white man." No argument could 
modify that rankling consciousness of an 
inferiority which his imagination detected. 
He hated his fellows because they w^ere not 
as he. And his temperament followed the 
traditions of his race. Where he could not 
bully he fawned. 

" I'm sorry to hear you speak like that, 
Jeffery. There were few^ at Webb's who 

would not have helped you if 

they could. You did not let 

them " 

" No, the swine ! I wanted 
none of their help." 

"But that's no reason for 
hating them ? " 

He threw himself back in his 
chair and laughed brutally. 

"Let's talk of something 
else," he said. "Your pal, 
Hardy, what's he doing ? " 

" He's at Woolwich, doing 

" Married ? " 

"A year " 

"And one child?" 
" Yes, there's a child." 
" Ah, Hardy was one of 
them. I'll not forget him — in 
hell or out of it ! " 

" You were going to speak of 
something else — something more 

" Yes ; whisky. That's what 
I want to speak of. I'm as dry 
as biscuits. Suppose we wash 
out the Colonel's Bordeaux. 
Filthy stuff, my chum, filthy 
stuff ; but he likes it. Let's 
drink to his daughter." 

I rang the bell and ordered 
whiskies and sodas. 

" Colonel Lepeletier is a friend 

The less said about him the 

Haven't you another subject ? I'm 

of mine, 


anxious to know where you have been since 

I saw you last. By Jove ! it really is sixteen 

years ago." 

" Mix me three fingers, and I'll tell you. 
So ; don't drown it. Another cigar — I 
thank you." 

He drank his whisky, the half of it at a 
gulp, and settled himself in his chair. The 
deep-set, steely eyes turned upon me curiously. 

Again I said that they who named him 
" The Panther " named him well. 



'' You made a quick exit to-night," he 
exclaimed j ocularly, avoiding mj question, 
as his habit was. "The old man said you 
were queerish ; you don't look it." 

" I — oh, I'm all right — a little busi- 


" Down on the bathing-shore, eh ? Well, 
I won't intrude. ' Meet me by moonlight 
alone,' eh ? But I thought it was an off- 
shore wind, and you puzzled me." 

" That must have been amusing." 

" Oh, it was. I'd made up the story, and 
you come along and alter the best chapter. 
Old colonel— young daughter— milord the 
Englishman. Colonel's duty compels him 
to say * No.' Mustn't pal with the English. 
Milord, the Englishman, bounces out of the 
house and goes to sharpen a sword on the 
pier buttress. Coffee for two, to-morrow, 
and daughter's tears to sweeten it. Say, 
she's a pretty girl." 

He had touched me to the quick, and 
another word might have sent him head- 
long from the room. But a sentence he 
had spoken bitted my tongue and brought 
me to a point of curiosity beyond any 
I had touched. 

" What particular duty put upon Colonel 
Lepeletier by his command at Calais should 
cause him to show me incivility ? " I asked 
carelessly, bidding my annoyance under a 
pretence of amusement. He answered it 

" Oh, I know nothing about that. These 
French soldiers have odd notions, that's all. 
He may think that you and he are to meet 
across a sabre some day. Who knows — who 
the devil knows ? as messieurs the Spaniards 
say. Have you seen his coal-pits, by the 
way ? " 

" The works at Escalles ? No, I understand 
they are not to be seen." 

He half closed his eyes and I thought 
that he watched me closely while he spoke. 

" Officially, no, of course not. But there 
might be a way in." 

" I have no curiosity on the point." 

" No curiosity ? And you call yourself an 
Englishman ? " 

" Yes, but not a spy." 

He rose to his feet and began to laugh as 
a man in a maudlin condition bordering 
upon intoxication. 

"I'll drink your health, old sport," he 
said. " If you want to see the place where 
the coal comes from, you follow an old chum. 
I'll show you two fortunes not fifty feet 
below high-water mark. Say you're a friend 
of Sadi Martel — oh, you'll keep my secret. 

old pard, you won't blow on one of the 
boys ? " 

" I'm not likely to do that, especially 
under the circumstances." 

" Ah ! the circumstances. Old boy's hon- 
our and that sort of thing. Well, so long. 
It's a pity to leave good liquor, isn't it. 
Let's fill another glass. Here's to the little 
lady who can't get married because La Prance 
says ' No.' A bumper and no heel-taps— ah ! 
that does a man good." 

He drained a tumbler and then staggered 
to the door. But he had wits enough to cry 
" Good-night " to me in French, as he stood 
upon the threshold, and returning for an 
instant to the room he took me by the 
lapel of the coat and whispered a con- 

" You won't be so glad you're an English- 
man next year, pard— no, by ! " 

And with that he went away and left me 
standing by the table to wonder at the odd 
notions which come to men whose reason is 
bartered at so low a price. 



It was characteristic of Harry Fordham 
that you could never catch his laughter 
napping. Sunshine or rain, good news or ill 
—-there was the man and there the jest to 
lift the clouds of your misfortune, or to rub 
out the tidings which had troubled you. To 
one over-given to gloom and saturnity (for 
this picture of myself I must admit), there 
was no finer antidote in all the kingdoms 
than the merry consolations of that irre- 
pressible humour. And to it he added a 
measure of common sense more generous 
than the Church is apt to bestow. " Make a 
man and you make a Christian," was the 
keystone of his teaching. He spent his days, 
I witness, in making men. 

Harry had returned from the Colonel's 
house when Robert Jeffery left the hotel, 
and as soon as he heard the fellow's steps 
upon the stairs he came across to my room 
and seated himself deep in an armchair, as 
though it had been a natural thing for me to 
leave Lepeletier as I had done, and to steal 
away without a single word to Agnes or the 
others. As ever, he wore an old Trinity 
coat, and carried in his hand the colossal 
pipe which had been the envy even of the 
hardy smokers of the shires. But his slippers 
were remarkable— a sample, as he professed, 
from the two hundred pairs which the 



'^ flock" had worked for him, and which, 
some day, he would bequeath to a sHpper- 
loving nation. 

" My son," he said pathetically, as he 
lighted the giant bowl with loving care, 
" my son, I do not like your friends. 
Apparently they have recently partaken in 
this very room of certain intoxicating liquors 
which are offensive to me. Whisky upon 
Bordeaux. Behold an atrocity ! Ked, white, 
and (in the morning) blue. The national 
colours. Let us set them an example and 
consume the veriest drop in all the world of 
the spirit they call brandy. Add thereunto 
what the waiter calls ' syphon,' and I am a 
happy man." 

I rang for the waiter and ordered the 
Cognac. The work of filling my own pipe 
seemed long and laborious that night. Harry 
watched me observantly. I knew that he 
w^as asking himself how he should begin. 

" Well," he exclaimed presently, and with- 
out a shadow of warning, " what said papa ? 
Don't you see I'm dying with curiosity ? " 

I struck a match and held it up w4iile I 
auswered him. 

*' Lepeletier desires me to leave Calais 

Harry laughed long and loudly. The 
waiter who came in with the glasses stared at 
him in mute and French amazement. To 
me his humour w^as as water upon my back. 

" The reasons," he cried—-" the reasons for 
this madness ? " 

" I did not ask them." 

He regarded at me with blank amazement. 

" You did not ask them — not ask his 
reasons ? " 

" Not a word of them." 

"Great Solomon! Here's a man who 
will take another man's ' No ' and go away 
without reasons. Alfred, you are very 
young, my boy." 

" I am one-and-thirty, Harry." 

" In years ; in discretion, one without the 
tliirty. I pass on. Tell me what the aged 
one said." 

"If I remember it -principally, I think, 
that he would an lie could, but could not. 
The rest I divined. A French officer does 
not marry his daughter to a captain of 
English Hussars— France would not approve." 
, " France—what has France got to do with 
aI I^ France going to pay her dressmaker? 
Odd rot France ! I'll tell him so to-morrow." 

I' Would that help matters ? " 

" We'll see. I've promised to go over to 
Hunkerque with him." 

*' Seriously, you do not take my view ? " 

"I value it at two groats sterling. How 
far does a man in love ever see ? What 
business has he not to be blind ? You're as 
blind as a bat, my son, and as proud as an 
hidalgo when his toes are trodden on." 

"I am proud enough to leave a man's 
house when he asks me." 

. " To leave a man's fiddlesticks ! And a 
pretty girl crying her eyes out in the drawing- 

" Agnes is not likely to do that." 

" Figuratively, blockhead. She laughed all 
the evening. But a little and she would have 
made me sing in tune. I told her you had 
business at the hotel—Heaven forgive me ! " 

" It was true. I found your French en- 
gineer when I came in. Of course I was 
right. He is Eobert Jeffery, after all." 

For a moment Harry was serious. 

"What's the fellow doing in France, 
then ? " 

"Superintending the new coal- workings. 
He always promised to make a first class 

"Ah, with a third class character. You 
can't ride in two carriages at once, remember. 
Which class is he travelling in now ? " 

" The buffet-car, apparently — near the 

" Then look out for collisions. He seems 
on good terms up at Lepeletier's. The 
Colonel's hand and glove with him. Miss 
Agnes, I notice, is merely on finger-tip 
terms. That's lucky, anyway." 

I treated the suggestion with contempt, 
but the sting of it remained. 

"He has my word that we do not give 
him away. But, at least, do not ask me to 
be jealous of him." 

" I wouldn't for the world. There is only 
one request this hour suggests " 

" And that ? " 

"Bed — bed, my captain. To-morrow, at 
nine of the clock, I leave for Dunkerque. 
An honest train and no stink-pots. By the 
time you are thinking of dinner I shall be 
here to sing 'All's Well' with you. Of 
course I shall. Am I the man to take 
' No ' for an answer ? By my halibut ! she 
shall be mine — yours, that is." 

I laughed at his nonsense. 

"I wish to Heaven I could think so, 

He put his hand upon my shoulder and 
bade me good-night affectionately — more 
affectionately than he had ever done. 

" I will leave no word unsaid that shall 
help the man who is the best friend to me 
in all the world." 



I knew that he would not. I knew that 
if there w^ere one in Calais who conld win 
back that which I had lost, it was Harry 
Fordham, the parson of Cottesbrook. 

And I slept upon the promise of his words, 
upon that and his cheery optimism ; and in 
my sleep I dreamed neither of Agnes nor of 
my love for her, but, strangely, of my coun- 
try and of her safety. For a man had said 
that, before the year was out, I should be 
sorry to be an Englishman. 

Even in sleep I knew that he lied. 



There was a drizzling rain of morning 
falling when I had breakfasted next day. 
The few who sought the blighted amusements 
which Calais affords to that rara avis, a 
visitor, went limply and with little spirit to 
the morning bath and the forlorn Casino. 
Nor w^as I, myself, in better humour. A 
night's rest found me with but little hope of 
Harry or his promise. What could be done, 
that I knew he would do ; but my logic 
wore a greyer robe than his, and the man 
who had whispered the first hint of the 
truth persuaded me against myself. Some 
graver motive lay behind Colonel Lepeletier's 
talk with me. I suspected already that it 
w^as fear of his own duty, reluctance to war 
against that destiny which had made of him 
a French engineer and of me an English 
officer of Hussars. 

Harry had left for Dunkerque at eight 
o'clock, they told me ; but it was nearly ten 
before I quitted my hotel and wandered 
aimlessly to the Gare Maritime, the place 
where the land -lubbers come from — as the 
parson always spoke of it. The morning 
boats steamed in with dripping decks and 
busy sailors, and Paris-bound incapables all 
pitiful to see, but found me without 
amusement or interest. The freshness of 
the morning, the racing seas which gambolled 
in beds of foam, the close-pointed smacks, 
the busy Channel life, and Dover clearly 
to be seen in the after-lights of rain, moved 
me to a certain impatience as unreasonable 
as inexplicable. While I would tell myself 
in one breath that Lepeletier's words last 
night were typical of a mood which a day 
would change, I would say in the next that 
they were irrevocable as the seas which rolled 
westward to the sandy beaches and tbeir 
haven beneath Gris-Nez. The wisdom of 
years spoke cruelly to my youtli of desire 

when it reminded me of the gulf that lies 
between one nation and another. For I had 
not remembered it, had seen only the face of 
one dear to me beyond any face my life had 
shown me. 

Questions without answers, books without 
stories, an hour at the Casino, another upon 
the beach, a visit to the pierhead when the 
afternoon boat came in — behold my day ! 
Impatient always, impatience grew upon*me 
then as a fever. What was Harry doing ? 
Why did he not send me a telegram ? 
Where was Agnes ? Had her father spoken 
to her ? Would she send me any word of 
her ow^n ? Once or twice, let me confess, I 
went as far as the Jardin Eichelieu to w^atch 
her house and to reap as a reward those 
quickening emotions which the home of one 
we love ever stirs within us. Ugly and 
commonplace to the point of brutality as it 
w^as, the Colonel's house then pictured itself 
in my mind as some scene of passing 
happiness and content. But there was no 
one about its door when I stood in the 
gardens to watch it upon that unforgotten 
day — and Agnes, as I learned from an 
acquaintance at a later hour, had driven her 
ponies to Marquise to visit a relative there. 
But I did not lament my occupation, and 
would have gone to the house though no 
human thing were destined to tenant it again. 

It had been already late in the afternoon 
when Dr.' Woodward, one of the English 
doctors at Calais, spoke of Agnes and her 
ponies upon the Paris road. I let another 
hour go by in the hope that some wind of 
fortune would send Harry prematurely to 
the hotel again ; but when four o'clock was 
struck by the harbour bells, and there was no 
sign of him, the idea came to me that I 
would run a little way out toward Marquise 
upon my car, perchance in the hope of 
meeting Agnes, perchance in the mere resolve 
to kill time ; for all my thoughts w^ere 
abroad, and I had no clear purpose either of 
intent or action. When my man had 
brought the carriage to the door, and we had 
threaded the suburb of St. Pierre and passed 
the barrier, westward, to the high road, I 
began to wonder what folly had kept me at 
the hotel all day, and why I had left my 
-new car idle. At least I was doing some- 
thing now. The fresh wind, the saturated 
air, the galloping seas, the joy of speed, 
excited me to a new optimism and a better 
mood. Even the ugliest road in Europe — 
for such you may call the route from Calais 
to Boulogne, with its sandy dunes, its lime- 
kilns, its dykes, its desolation — could not 

"A vast activity." 



abate my liumoiir. The clouds would lift 
to-morrow, I said. There are days in every 
life when they loom above us and we cannot 
see the sun. But the sun is there all the 
same, and a little word of courage will lift 
the darkest horizon. 

There were few upon the road — peasants 
trudging to Calais, a couple of troopers 
riding at the trot, a doctor in the oddest 
buggy I have ever seen, a priest, a fisherman. 
As we drew near to the great Government 
works above Escalles I remembered for an 
instant the visit which the man Jeffery had 
paid me yesterday, and all the drunken 
innuendo he then had uttered. But a greater 
interest prevailed above it, an interest of the 
road itself, and of a carriage w^hich must pass 
upon it presently. The idea grew upon me 
now that I must see Agnes ; must hear 
from her ow n lips as much as my honour and 
my word to her father permitted me to know. 
Here upon the road to Marquise the oppor- 
tunity should be found. 

I say tliat we drew near to the great works 
at Escalles, and it was here for the first time 
that Bell, my engineer, checked our speed 
and began to remember that he had a brake. 
A taciturn man always, with no neck to 
speak of for a car to crack, as he put it 
grimly, I came to regard him as a part of 
the machine he drove, an automaton, a 
mute. On that particular afternoon I can 
remember no word that he uttered from the 
Porte St. Pierre to Haut-Buisson ; but as 
we came to a walking pace to cross the rails 
by the workings, he jerked a thumb back- 
wards toward Calais and implied thereby 
that it was raining behind us, and that we 
should catch it presently. 

" Going to be a storm, sir." 

" Apparently there is one. Bell. Have 
you got the mackintoshes ? " 

" Oh, of course, sir." 

" Then go on slowly and let's see what we 
make of it." 

Certainly it was very black. Mists loomed 
above distant Gris-Nez, heavy clouds were 
beating in from the sea. At Calais it was 
raining already, and the contending sun cut 
prisms of light across the bending showers. 
But where might we shelter if not in the 
works ? I was debating the point when w^ho 
should appear at the great gate of the 
first enclosure but Robert Jeffery himself. 
For an instant he stared at me with as 
savage a look as I have ever seen upon the 
face of man. But it passed as quickly, and 
he came up to the car and stood peering up 
at me curiously. 

" Where away, my chum ? where away so 
speedily ? " 

" Are you greatly concerned to know "i " 

" No ; I don't care a scudo. But it's a 
nice day for a picnic. Say, did you see two 
ponies and something behind them go past 
here just now ? " 

"You are speaking of Mademoiselle Le- 
peletier ? " 

" On the head first time. Your old cara- 
van won't catch her, my boy. She was 
through here at one o'clock." 

"That's interesting. Much indebted for 
past favours. Are they going to open that 
gate and let me through ? " 

You must know that they have laid a 
pair of rails for the light engines across the 
road by Haut-Buisson, and there is a gate 
which an old watchman keeps. Usually he 
stood at attention when I came up ; but I 
remember that he was not there on that un- 
forgotten day, nor did I discover anyone else 
in his place. Bell told me afterwards that 
Jeffery laughed when I cried " Gate ! " I did 
not see him, or much that happened might 
go unrecorded here. Would it have been 
for my country's good, I ask ? God alone 

"The old flat-head's off with the girls,' 
said Jeffery suddenly. "Why doesn't he 
answer ? Gosh ! there's the rain coming, too. 
You'd better step inside, my chum. I've a 
bottle of something they label ginger-beer 
there, but the grocer made a mistake and I 
do believe it's whisky. Come in and tell 

Now, I do not believe for a moment that I 
wanted to go in with the man. Here and 
now, after all has been and is done with— 
may it be for our time and our children's 
children ! — I can record it that I would 
sooner have met any other man in Europe 
than Robert Jeffery upon the road to Mar- 
quise. But the gate was shut, and a very 
deluge of rain began to fall ; and there was 
the open door and the offer of shelter, and, 
to cut it short, against my will, against my 
judgment, I got down from the car and pre- 
pared to go in with him. 

" Run your Pickford's van into the shed 
yonder," he said, becoming busy upon the 
instant. " The man can stop there. I dare- 
say you won't be five minutes. We'll just 
pull a cork and see what the clouds say. 
There's a sentry here, but he's not as fierce 
as he looks — not to friends of mine. Say, 
old Pluvius is out on the spree to-night, 
isn't he ? " 

He pushed open the gate, and the sentry 



stood to the salute. As we passed through 
the great door it was instantly bolted and 
barred behind us. I did not like the sound 
of the key in the lock, but thought no more 
of it as Jeffery led the way across a paved 
enclosure to a little office under the shelter 
of a wooden wall. There I asked him a 

" You are quite sure that they would not 
mind my coming in here ? " 

" Why should they mind, sonny ? " 

" I understood in Calais that strangers 
were forbidden the works." 

" Ah, the military works ; but we're in the 
coal-pits. You don't suppose I should go 
fooling you around the forts, do you ? What 
a mug you must take me for ! " 

He laughed with that resonant,- unpleasant 
laugh of his, and turned the key in the office 
door. When we were inside he produced 
a bottle of good Scotch whisky and two 

" Just a thimbleful to keep out the cold. 
i don't drink in the daytime usually, but 
this is an occasion. Besides, it keeps the 
inside of the ship dry. Here's to your 
friends down yonder, especially the pretty 
one. That's a toast you'll drink, sonny, I 
make sure." 

I avoided the point and began to speak of 
the works again. All that I could see through 
the little window of his office betrayed a vast 
activity, the labour of countless navvies, the 
snorting and puffing of engines, the whirr of 
cranes, the ceaseless rattle of chains and 
buckets. Interest was compelled. He 
watched me as one amused and filled his 
glass again. 

" Plenty to do here, eh, Captain ? Why, 
yes, we don't catch cold. I've been on since 
six this morning, and if I get to bed at two 
o'clock it will be a sort of night ofp. But it's 
nothing to what they do over the pond 
yonder. That makes me tired." 

*' Were you long in America ? " 

" Three years in Mexico and five in French 
Guiana. After that I went out West and 
tried a couple of raihvays iw Texas. , I've 
seen some life — my ! " 

" And learned to pass for a Frenchman ? " 

" Oh, as for that, I speak the lingo, and my 
yarns of Mexico do the rest. They say I've 
got a twang, but don't believe 'em. It's 
good enough for such cattle, any W' ay." 

He laughed at his own irony, and then 
looking at me sharply, as I had seen him look 
twice already (and more particularly when 
they shut the gate upon us), he put a 

" You were crossing over to-night, w^eren't 
you ? " 

" To Dover, you mean ? " 

" Aye, that's so. I heard you mention it, I 

" Well, I was going to-morrow." 

" And your pal, the parson ? " 

" Oh, I am not Fordham's keeper." 

" Good sort, eh ? None of your hustlers, 
with the hat crown down. Suppose w^e have 
another tot and look round. It's clearing a 
bit, I see." 

The heavy storm had swept over by that 
time, and now a great yellow sun glowed pale 
and watery in a halo of fantastic light away 
above distant Cape Gris-Nez. In another 
hour it w^ould set, and Harry would be 
waiting for me at the Meurice. I was im- 
patient to have done with it ; but the man 
led me on in spite of myself. 

"Just a minute," he said, "we'll go and 
see the pits." 

" But what about my lights ? " 

" You won't want 'em. Come along. I 
have to make a round, and you'll see some- 
thing. Ever been dowm a coal-pit, Captain ? " 

'' I can't say that I have." 

" Then you shall go down one now. Come 
along, old sport. It's a treat to see old faces 
— I'm right glad you looked in." 

He drank another " tot " of the whisky 
at a gulp and passed out to the yard. To 
argue with him would have been to defeat 
myself. I determined to have done with it, 
and to see the " pits " as he desired. I knew 
no more than the dead that I walked with a 
man who had set a trap for me. 

It was quite fine when we left his office, 
and there was even a glow of the ebbing 
sunlight upon all those dreary acres and the 
grasslands beyond them. Away at sea (and 
we were four miles from the seashore as 
I made it out) the aftermath of storm 
gave a glorious serenity of scene and atmo- 
sphere, a clearness of vision which showed me 
the white cliffs of Dover, the Foreland, and 
all the fresh life of the Channel, as in some 
surpassing picture of Nature's painting. 
Calais itself I could perceive as a collection 
of roofs and spires below the outline of the 
furthest cliff. There were hanilets upon the 
sloping sides of the westward hills, pasture- 
lands beyond them, and, to dominate all, the 
great Cape whose flashing light we point to 
at Dover, w^hose headland first welcomes the 
landsman as he labours in the agony of 
passage. All about me, however, w^as a 
spectacle more wonderful than these. We 
had passed as through some magic door to a 



very Inferno of clamorous labour, to fields 
which had become quagmires, to armies of 
swarming workmen, to scenes of a great 
enterprise of which those who passed by the 
outer gate might not have dreamed in a 
hundred years. And these were the " pits'' ? 
I asked. Already some great, some indefin- 
able doubt dogged my steps. Whither was I 
going ? Why had I followed Jeffery ? Why 
did he show me these things .^ I could not 
tell you then. To-day I would say that it 
was my destiny. 

A first enclosure, vast and marshy, and 
everywhere teeming with life, we trod warily, 
observed, as it seemed to me, very closely by 
those who worked there, but challenged by 
none. Heavy, buttressed masonry, which I 
could have sworn was the rampart of a fort, 
stood as the dividing line between this outer 
court and a second enclosure which lay 
beyond it and still nearer to the sea. Here 
again sentries patrolled the rampart and stood 
warders of its gate. But we passed them 
at a nod from Jeffery, and traversing a little 
tunnel of the buttress we stood out in a 
tremendous working, which, whatever it 
might have been, had neither the aspect nor 
the shape of a pit's mouth. For my part, I 
could not even conceive a project, military or 
civil, which might provoke such activity or 

employ so numerous an army. Here, as in 
the outer yard, ballast-trains moved every- 
where, their trucks rolling under loads of 
oozy chalk, their little engines speaking of 
the contractor and his business. The shriek 
of whistles, the burr of the crane, the jarring 
of steel bars, the odd chantings of the workers, 
united in that discordant note of labour 
which only the largest undertakings may 
strike. I said that never were coal-pits such 
as these. And I went on obstinately, seem- 
ing to realise that it was dangerous to go. 

A second line of ramparts, tunnelled as the 
others, and leading to a third enclosure yet 
nearer the seashore, brought Jeffery for the 
first time to a standstill. He pointed out 
to me the mouth of a great inclined railway 
which appeared to dip down in a vast cutting 
straight to the bowels of the earth. I did 
not ask him what the cutting was, but he told 

" Yonder," he said, " yonder's the place we 
get our coal from, chummy. We don't go in 
for shafts here—oh, dear, no. We just walk 
down to our Wallsend, the same as you walk 
down the Haymarket. Come along, my boy, 
I'll show you a finer sight than ever you saw 
in your life." 

And so I went with him to the heart of 
the peril. 

{To he continued,) 

•^4'*' -^ 


AI/rHOUGH tlie Queen this year gave up 
her journey to the Continent in order 
to stay with her people, her Miajesty 
has in no wise lost her love of travel. As it 
is, she has been to Ireland, and before long 
will go northward again for her usual autumn 
sojourn at Balmoral. But the venerable 
Sovereign travels, of course, under the easiest 
possible conditions, and everything is done to 
obviate any exertion, fatigue, or discomfort. 

To begin with the conveyances which are 
for her Majesty's use by road, the first 
mentioned must be the Coronation coach. 
To the present generation this carriage is 
almost unknown, as it has never left the Eoyal 
Mews at Buckingham Palace since 1861. 

This lovely, if 
cumbersome, ve- 
hicle was designed 
for George III. by 
Sir William Cham- 
bers. Every por- 
tion of it is richly 
decorated with 
gilded carving work, 
and the outside of 
the coach contains 
many panels on 
which are painted 
superb pictures by 
the finest artists of 
that period, Ciprani 
being the chief of 
them. On one door 
are represented 
Mars, Mercury, and 
Minerva, support- 
ins^ the Crown of 


By GEORaE A. Wade. 

Great Britain, and on the other door are 
shown figures of Industry and Ingenuity 
presenting the Genius of England with a 
cornucopia, whilst History is recording the - 
deeds of Fame. 

The body of the Coronation carriage 
consists of a representation of eight palm 
trees, which, branching out towards the top, 
form a support for the roof of the vehicle, 
and in the middle of the roof there are 
placed three boyish figures, representing 
England, Scotland and Ireland, holding a 
crown. Two figures in front of the coach 
appear to be pulling it with cords round their 
shoulders, and are sounding shells to announce 
the approach of the " Ocean's Monarch " ; 
whilst the back of the vehicle is splendidly 
decorated with the Eoyal Arms, the Order of 
St. George, and the Rose, Shamrock and 
Thistle. The total length of the carriage is 
24 feet and its height is 12 feet, the whole 
weighing no less than four tons. 

But beautiful as the Coronation coach is, 
lined inside with rich scarlet embossed velvet, 
and decorated outside with such gorgeous 
gilding, painting, and carving, the famous 
carriage has never been much favoured for 
State use by the Queen. It is too clumsy, 

Photo h}/'} 

III. X King J Goldhawk Road, W. 



too heavy, too jolting for her Majesty, in 
these days of lightness, luxury, and speed on 
the roads. In the good old days of King 
George III. this coach was considered to be 
the acme of comfort and ease in travelling ; 
to-day it is far behind the times in these 
respects. Yet no conveyance of modern 
times can compare with it as a sumptuous 
carriage for the roads, with its painted panels, 
that alone are worth £7,000. It also remains 
one of our most interestihg links with past 
methods of travelling m England, before 
railways were invented, and when motor-cars 
w-ere unknown. 

The next State conveyance used by the 
Queen to be noticed is the one she has 
generally favoured upon ceremonious occa- 
sions when a closed carriage has been neces- 

eight cream-coloured horses which are kept 
in the stables of Buckingham Palace. These 
Hanoverians, with their harness of red 
morocco leather and their grooms at their 
heads, make a very imposing spectacle. 

Of late the Queen has more often preferred 
an open carriage for her State appearances, 
as, for example, on the occasion of the 
Jubilee, and on her visit to Sheffield a few 
years ago. In such a case one of the best 
of the ordinary landaus at the Palace Mews 
is generally brought into requisition. These 
Royal carriages differ but little from many 
of those of the aristocracy, save that they 
are of regal size and upholstery. The latter 
is of dark blue cloth, and there are alw^ays a 
number of these carriages kept in the Mews 
ready for use. 

Photo by'] 


[H. N. King, Goldhawk Road, W. 

sary. This has been used by her Majesty 
when opening Parliament in person, and for 
many State or semi-State processions she 
much prefers it to the Coronation coach 
previously mentioned. 

Round the top of this second coach is some 
lovely carving, all richly gilt, of roses, sham- 
rocks and thistles. On the roof itself is the 
representation of a cushion bearing the 
Royal Grown. The interior decorations are 
very charming, the upholstery being done in 
light blue silk. So perfectly is the vehicle 
strung on its strong springs that, despite its 
size, it moves along with such ease and 
lightness that the occupant scarcely feels any 

When her Majesty uses this carriage on 
State occasions it is drawn by the famous 

Her Majesty likewise uses a carriage of 
this description when she takes her daily 
drive either at London or at Windsor. But 
in this case she is generally drawn by two 
pairs of greys, with outriders, the Queen 
showing a marked preference at present for 
this colour in her private carriage horses. 
On such occasions she is attended by a maid- 
of-honour and by one or two equerries. 
Only when the weather is either very wet or 
piercingly cold does the Queen drive out for 
her constitutional in a closed vehicle. 

liastly, amongst her driving conveyances 
we must not omit to mention the small 
phaeton and the donkey carriage which (he 
Sovereign uses for her daily drives within the 
bounds of the Royal residences. Of late 
years the Queen has almost given up the 



phaeton slie formerly kept for this })urpose, 
and has employed the donkey carriage 

The latter is made to carry two persons 
only, sitting side by side,. and so is admirably 
adapted for the drives of the Queen and 
the Princess Beatrice. When the latter does 
not accompany her Royal mother the donkey 
is led by the groom. In any case the pace 
is seldom more than a walk or a very easy 
trot, and the Queen often takes the reins in 
hand herself. 

The donkey carriage has a top which can 


be raised to keep off the hot sun or rain ; it 
is made of basket-work and is very light. 
Its^ steps have been arranged specially to 
facilitate her Majesty's getting in and out ; 
they nearly touch the ground, and the bottom 
of the phaeton will Idc noticed to be very 
low. It is more than probable that the 
Queen now prefers the little donkey-chaise to 
all the carriages in the Royal stables, since 
she derives more pleasure and recreation 
from it than from all the rest put together. 

When our Sovereign wishes to travel by 
railway very elaborate preparations are neces- 

Photo by] 


[Gunn d- Stuart, Richmond. 



Photo by] 

lEussell eft Sons, Baker Street, W. 

sary. There are at least two trains that 
may be dignified by the title of " Royal." 
One of them is the property of the Great 
Western Railway .Company, and the other of 
the London and North- Western Company. 
The former of these is the train which her 
Majesty uses when she travels to and from 
London and Windsor for such events as the 
Drawing- Rooms, etc. It is a train of the 
corridor build and is most luxuriously fitted 
up, .being painted in chocolate and cream 
colours, and consisting of at least six 

This train was built specially for the Queen 
to commemorate the Jubilee three years ago, 
and it is said to have cost in its entirety over 
£40,000 to the 

to the liondon and 
Railway Company. 
The train invariably 
consists of twelve 
vehicles when it is 
fully made up, the 
Royal saloons being 
exactly in the 
centre. These in- 
clude a sitting-room, 
a bedroom, and a 
dining-room. The 
windows are wide 
and are warmly 
"curtained by heavy 
green curtains, 
green being perhaps 
her Majesty's 
favourite colour for 
the drapery of win- 
dows and beds. 
Every part of the 
rooms is gorgeously 
the saloon being of 
the chairs, settees, 

fitted up, the suite of 

satin wood, inlaid, and 

etc., being covered with blue silk. Even 

the door-handles are gold-plated, and the 

floors are covered with thick carpets of 

velvet pile, whilst the saloons are brilliantly 

lighted in dull weather. 

Small tables, cages of pet birds, books, and 
the usual impedimenta which the Queen 
carries with her on 
all her journeys are 
there. Outside the 

also built a 

Great Western Rail- 
way. This Com- 

on the station plat- 
form at Windsor 
especially for Royal 
use, as a memento 
of the Jubilee. 

But the train 
which is, par excel- 
leme, the " Royal " 
train, is the one 
that carries her 
Majesty to Scotland 
and back when the 
Court goes to Bal- 
moral. This belongs 

Photo by] 

{Russell, Windsor. 



Fhoto hyl 

roofs of the train 
are painted white, 
and inside they are 
either upholstered, 
or painted and 
decorated in light 

Until a short 
time ago the car- 
riages were lighted 
by gas, her Majesty 
being most con- 
servative in such 
matters, but now 
the incandescent 
light is being 
brought into use 
here as in the Eoyal palaces. 

Electric bells are practically all over the 
train, so that the Queen can at once call her 
attendants, whose rooms adjoin her own, or 
she can in a few seconds have the train 
stopped, should she so desire, by touching an 
electric bell that tells the guard and engine- 
driver of her wish. 

On a table in her saloon is always laid 
beforehand a time-table, which gives every 
particular relating to the journey she is 
making. This time - table is artistically 
printed in mauve, on white paper. The 
Eoyal Arms surmount it, and it is bordered 
by a narrow gold band. 

The steps of the Eoyal saloons are worth 
notice. They let down to the ground like 
those of an ordinary State-carriage, so that 
her Majesty has no fatigue in mounting 
them. It need scarcely be said that these 
railway carriages are placed upon springs as 
perfect as human ingenuity can make them. 



[ires^ <fe SonSf Southsea. 

As one of the Princesses usually accom- 
panies the Queen on these journeys, in 
addition to the two maids-of -honour, equerries, 
secretaries, and railway directors, these have 
all to have their own apartments apportioned 
on the train. The ladies-in-waiting are 
always in the saloons next to the Queen, 
nearer the engine, while the equerries are in 
a carriage behind the Eoyal one. 

No special engine is adhered to, but there 
are two or three from which the selection is 
always made, these being naturally the best 
engines the Company possesses. The drivers 
and guards are similarly selected from the 
most trustworthy servants of the Company 
and are changed as seldom as possible. Both 
the engine and the carriages of the Eoyal train 
have the Eoyal Arms painted upon them. 
It is worth noting that under no circumstances 
whatever will her Majesty permit a higher 
rate of speed than thirty-five miles an hour. 

How many people know that there is still 

Photo by} ' " ''-_ , -^^--^s^- ^*fr~- ^^i-- p^Sp*^'"'*'?^-- . ^-- [Symonds & Co. t Portsmouth. 




in existence a Royal sedan-chair ? Yet such 
is the case, though her Majesty has never 
had occasion in these latter days of quick 
methods of travelling to make use of it. 
But the visitor to Windsor may have seen it 
near the entrance to the State apartments. 
It was often used by Queen Charlotte, and 
has her monogram, " 0. E.," plainly marked 
on its sides. Except for its rather more 
sumptuous upholstery, there is little to 
differentiate it from the many sedan-chairs of 
the period to which it belonged. 

It is kept in a glass case, and its em- 
broideries are not nearly so much faded as 
one would have supposed. On the top of it 
is a gold, or rather gilt, crown on a cushion, 
and the front is hung with silk drapery and a 
fringe. Two large tassels hang from it, and 
the sides above the monogram are decorated 
with a crown. The bottom part of the chair 
is of red morocco, and rests upon a Royal Lion 
and Unicorn in gilt work. It is at present 
without its staves. 

For many years the sedan - chair lay 
unheeded in one of the many lumber-rooms 
of the Castle, and when it was discovered, so 
little was known about it that it was believed 
at first to have been a relic of the time of 
Charles I., and the initials on it seemed to 

favour this view. But when its history began 
to be inquired into, the real meaning of 
the "0. R." soon became clear. 

There are few people who are aware that 
the Queen has still a Royal Barge-Master, 
though the barge itself is now a thing of the 
past, as far as the Queen's use of it is concerned. 
The old barge used for so many generations 
by Royalties, from the days of James I. 
onwards, now reposes in the South Ken- 
sington Museum, and will never more carry 
bevies of fair ladies and gallant gentlemen 
from Westminster to Hampton Court as in 
the olden days. Its last appearance in public 
was at the Fisheries Exhibition in the early 
eighties, and then it had to be sawn into 
two pieces before it could be got into the 

The barge was 68 feet long, and about 6 
feet, wide, and she carried a complement of 
twenty-one oarsmen. Her speed was often, at 
its best, not less that from nine to ten miles 
an hour, so that she was not easily to be 
beaten on the Thames in her day. Her hull 
was oak - planked, and had a considerable 
rise at the stern. Passengers entered her by 
a landing stool, carried for use where no stage 
existed, which, when placed upon the beach, 
formed a gentle slope to the gunwale level. 



Photo by] 


ISymonds <fe Co., rortsmoulh. 



THE llOYAL liARtiK. 

Her state-room was near the stern, and 
extended the full width of the hull, into 
which it was completely incorporated. It 
was about 5 feet 8 inches high, and was 
sumptuously gilded and furnished. *Its 
upholstery was of scarlet and gold cloth, and 
the exterior of the barge itself was adorned 
by a number of carved mermaids, dolphins, 
fishes^ etc. 

It is not exactly known who was the 
maker of the gallant vessel, or in what year 
she was first placed upon the Thames. But 
she can be traced back to the time of 
James I., and Mr. Messenger, the Eoyal 
Barge-Master, gave me it as his opinion that 
the barge was made from some Yenetian 
model, if not actually by a Yenetian work- 
man, in the " City of the Sea " itself. 

As to the last use of the barge by 
her Majesty, the same gentleman told me 
that he was appointed to his present post 
in the year 1862, but that he has never 
had the pleasure of rowing the Queen in the 
barge. It seems that the last occasion on 
which our Sovereign patronised the famous 
river craft was on the opening of the Coal 
Exchange in 1849, when the Queen went 
from Whitehall Stairs to the City by way of 
the Thames, and used the barge for the 
purpose. Since then it has not been engaged 
in any State ceremony, for the days of slow 
travelling on the river are past, when one can 
use the railway, and, moreover, the great river 
traffic nowadays has made such a journey far 
from being the easy and pleasant means of 
locomotion it used to be. 

There is now a smaller barge, commonly 
called the " Shallop," which phes on Yirginia 
Water for the use of Royalty, when so 
disposed, though it must be said that that is 
not very often. This is the boat which was 
brought down the river, when the Sultan of 
Turkey visited England a quarter of a 

century ago, to give his Majesty a river- 

Speaking of the old barge and its master, 
who, by the way, gets £60 a year from the 
Royal Household as his salary, we must not 
pass by those curious survivals of the same 
period, the " Queen's Watermen." There 
are thirty-six of them who get each £8 10s. a 
year as wages, with 15s. each day, and their 
meals, when on duty. This duty was, of 
course, originally to row the Royal Barge, but 
now it is confined to taking visitors round the 
lake for a row on the occasion of a garden party 
at Buckingham Palace. Their costume is a 
very fine one, and consists of knee-breeches, 
silk stockings, low shoes, a scarlet coat with 
silver facings, and a black velvet jockey cap. 
On the coat, both back and front, there is a 
silver badge of the Royal Arms, with Y.R. 
at its side. 

These watermen, or three of them, have 
to be present when the Sovereign opens 
Parliament in person — a survival of the old 
days when they had to go by water to fetch 
the Royal Crown and Maces from the Tower, 
and hand them to the monarch at the House 
of Lords. 

As regards the boats at Buckingham 
Palace, which may fairly be regarded as 
coming in the list of " the Queen's Convey- 
ances," there are a few particulars that may 
prove interesting. Only a couple of these 
boats are kept there permanently. The 
others are brought when required from 
Mr. Messenger's place at Teddington, 
generally about ten or twelve of them, and 
there is a " Queen's Waterman " to each. 
On the occasion of the last Jubilee they were 
much in evidence, and at State garden-parties 
on warm summer days they are well patron- 
ised. Except for a Royal flag at the stern 
of the boat, and occasionally a gay awning, 
they differ in no respect from the ordinary 



river boats. The Queen, it need scarcely 
be said, has not had a row in them lately, 
but the younger members of the Eoyal 
Family often make use of them on such 

The Royal yachts, on the other hand, are 
much patronised by the Queen. There are 
at present four of these, the latest being 
the extremely fine vessel just completed, 
which, however, her Majesty has not yet 

When not in actual use all the Royal yachts 
are kept at Portsmouth. The smallest is the 
Alberta^ then comes the Oshorne^ the largest 
of all being the newer of the two vessels 
christened Victoria and Albert, There is, too, 
a small tender called the Elfin, occasionally 
brought into requisition if needed. 

The Alberta is really a small steam yacht 
with paddles. Her hull is painted black, 
with yellow bands, and the upholstery of her 
state-rooms is in scarlet and blue. She is 
seldom used by the Queen herself, as her 
Majesty much prefers the larger yachts, 
which are more roomy and commodious. 

The Osborne is a vessel of 1,850 tons 
and 1,800 horse-power. Except for her 
size, she is fitted up much like the Alberta, 
but there are more rooms for her Majesty's 
use and for her guests. The Osborne is a 
very comfortable yacht, and is frequently 
brought into requisition when any of the 
Royal Family wish to visit Southern Europe 
by sea. She some months ago took H.R.H. 
the Princess of Wales on such a cruise. 
With the whole of the Royal Family this 
yacht is much in favour. 

The Queen herself, however, has for many 
years favoured the older Vicl07ia and Albert. 
This is a steam yacht of 2,470 tons and 
some 2,400 horse-power. She is commanded 
by Rear- Admiral Fullerton, an experienced 
officer in whom her Majesty reposes the 
fullest confidence. When the Sovereign 
goes over to the Continent she as' a rule 
uses this yacht, and generally makes a 
point of sleeping on board overnight on 
such occasions. 

The Victoria and Albert was built in the 
year 1855, so that she will soon be half a 
century old. There are three apartments set 
aside on the vessel for her Majesty's private 
use. One of these is a bedroom. The bed 
is one of the old-fashioned order, with four 
posts. It is hung on every side with curtains, 
and is kept from moving, in the case of the 

yacht rolling in a swelling sea, by being 
fastened to the floor. Next to this bedroom 
is a small sitting-room, and the other apart- 
ment is a dressing-room. 

Besides these rooms for the Queen there 
are others which are apportioned to various 
members of the Royal Family. These rooms 
are sumptuously fitted-up, much in the same 
style as those kept for her Majesty's use. 
The upholstery in the state-rooms is of 
chintz, with a pattern of pretty rosebuds, 
and was chosen by the Prince Consort. His 
piano still stands in the drawing-room of the 
yacht. All the usual furniture and nick- 
nacks of her Majesty's rooms when at 
Osborne or Windsor find their counterpart 
here on the Royal yacht. 

Lately there has been launched from Pem- 
broke Dockyard a new yacht, also christened 
the Victoria and Albert, for the Queen's 
use. It will be much larger, better fitted 
than the others, and as sumptuous as pos- 
sible. Much of the interior is arranged 
in accordance with the Queen's own ideas 
and wishes. In length this yacht exceeds 
the older Victoria and Albert by 80 feet, 
and in breadth by 10 feet. Instead of 
having paddles, the new vessel is fitted 
with twin -screws, and all her cabin fit- 
tings are of fireproof v/ood. The yacht 
is built of steel, with her hull sheathed 
with copper. 

Outside, the new yacht is even more 
imposing. Round her hull run two imitation 
coils of rope, which are brilliantly gilded. 
These are 5 feet apart and over 700 feet 
long. There are also large shields on the 
sides of the yacht carrying the Royal Arms, 
the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, etc., and 
at the starboard quarter of the stern is placed 
a great figure of Britannia, 10 feet high, 
whilst a similar figure of Neptune is on the 
stern port side. 

The upholstery of the Royal apartments 
is of the same style and pattern as on the 
old Victoria and Albert, From the upper 
deck to the main one is a lift especially 
built for her Majesty and suite to reach 
their rooms without fatigue. 

The new Victoria and Albert has, on 
the medallion at her stern, the motto, 
" Heaven's Light our Guide." 

Altogether, this newest yacht is, without 
doubt, in every way the most beautiful, as 
it has been the most costly, of all " The 
Queen's Conveyances." 



Illustrated hy Bertha Newcomhe, 

a small village 
is ours. Count- 
ing in every 
small house in 
the wide boun- 
daries of the 
parish, we fall, I 
believe, a long 
way short of 
four figures ; and, consequently, we 
enjoy the privilege of knowing all 
about each other's affairs and personal 
characteristics, and also a pretty minute 
account of each other's family history, which, 
when it is one's own family, is sometimes 
provoking. Life in the village or hamlet is 
an open i30ok. Gossip about each other has 
to fill the place of the concerts, theatres, 
music-halls, and other social amusements of 
townsfolk ; and the townsman cannot under- 
stand how absorbingly interesting the most 
trivial details of personal gossip can be, and 
would very likely laugh if he were told that 
the sudden (natural) death of Widow EUem's 
sow gave, on an average, at least thirty 
minutes of gossip and speculation to every 
adult person in our community. 

The fierce light that beats upon a throne 
is a milder ray than that which plays about 
the head of a villager. His lightest word, 
his childish escapades, his youthful follies are 
well remembered ; and he who returns to his 
native village expectant of homage because 
he has gone out and climbed some way up 
the hill of prosperity has the crimson 
brought to his cheek by the ghost of his past 
being conjured up to his vision. When all 
this is borne in mind it will not seem sur- 
prising that I, in common with my neigh- 
bours, knew of the passion of our Guardian 
of the Peace (PoHce Constable Yickery, 
Dorset Constabulary) for Mrs. Luman, the 
doctor's housekeeper, nor that I am able to 
give all the details of the romantic episode. 

* Copyright, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 

P.C. Yickery, when I first knew him, was 
a hale and hearty man of forty-five at the 
least, who needed a belt that would have 
been several sizes too large for any other 
constable in the county. Mrs. Luman also, 
whose hair had begun to lose its colour, was 
rather too plump for placid breathing. She 
confessed to forty summers and winters iii 
moments of confidence, but the shrewd ladies 
of the village added ten to the forty, and 
even then declared that they were erring on 
the side of mercy. 

" Why," said one, " Zarey was thirty and 
over when she did come. here, and that be 
twenty-one year agone. Don't tell I about 
vorty ; vivty-dree be her age iv it be a 

Mrs. Luman, when she came to take 
charge of the doctor's establishment, was a 
widow ; and, from the manner in which she 
spoke of the dual state, it was understood 
that her marriage had not been a success. 
She was a stout, placid, good-tempered 
woman, with tolerant opinions on every sub- 
ject under the sun save that of husbands. 
This was the subject that roused her slum- 
bering temper. With a shrill volubility, by 
turns ironical, vituperative, and interrogatory, 
but always caustic and altogether overstep- 
ping the bounds of parliamentary language, 
she belaboured the unhappy race and would 
allow them no single shred of virtue. 

" Don't talk to I 'bout the men-volks," was 
her summing up ; " there hain't one of 'em 
worth picken up as a husband. I've done 
with 'em. If ever you do zee Sarah Luman 
tied to another man, you can put she. down 
as gone saft-headed." 

Yet, in spite of Mrs. Luman's resolve, so 
often expressed and in such graphical lan- 
guage, Solomon Yickery lost his heart to her. 
It became his habit to drop into the doctor's 
kitchen, " to pass the time of day with Mrs. 
Luman," whenever duty or pleasure took 
him in that direction, which has been as 
often as nine times a week. Mr. Yickery 
came to our village eleven years ago, and 




from the first he saw in Mrs. liUinan tlie one 
desirable woman in the world. He had 
never thought of marriage, he often said, 
until he had seen her. 

At first his visits to the doctor's premises 
were purely on matters of business. " Yon 
zee, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Luman, "the 
parson's and Dr. Fall's here do stand iser- 
lated — as the prapper word to express it be ; 
and as thej be the gurtest (largest) houses 
in this parish, it be my dooty to zee to 'em." 
Of course Mrs. Luman asked him into the 
kitchen, giving Iiim a glass of beer and a 
little hot supper now and then ; for, though 
she had such a poor opinion of them, she 
delighted " in tellen the men-volks to their 
vaces what pore creaturs they be, and how 
she had tried one, which was one too many." 

Constable Yickery, never having played 
the gallant, was rather bashful, and it was 
quite a year before he summoned up courage 
to propose. It was a glass of old and heady 
port that braced his nerves on that momentous 
occasion. "It strikes I, ma'am," he said, 
looking critically at the port with one eye 
closed, "that you got hold of a poreish 
specimen of a man, that first ventur' of 
yours. Now, I warrant 'ee, ma'am, if you'd 
make another start in double harness, as 
you'd find married life a lot more wholesome 
than you think vor. It be the ordained 
state for man and woman," went on Mr. 
Vickery solemnly, in the greatest oratorical 
effort of his life, " and it bain't for a Chris- 
tian to sneer at it. Try a prapper zort of a 
man, and you'll not regret it, I warrant 'ee." 

Mrs. Luman was intensely amused, or at 
least seemed so. " Oh, Lor' ! " she cried, 
and broke into such a fit of laughter 
that poor Vickery was very uncomfortable. 
" Try a prapper zort of a man, did 'ee zay, 
Vickery ? " she asked, when she was a little 
more composed. "Where shall I find thik 
(that) zort, may I ask 'ee ? " 

It was Mr. Vickery's supreme chance, and 
to the credit of his manhood and the old 
port he rose to the occasion. " Well, Zarey," 
he said in tender and modest accents, " iv 
you'll take I, I'll try to make 'ee a virst- 
class husband. I bain't perfect ; I have my 
little vailens, there bain't any doubt ; but 
everybody will allow I be a good-tempered, 
easy zort ov man." 

Mrs. Luman raised and dropped her hands 
three times, as if in the extremity of amaze- 
ment. " Take you^ Zol Vickery ? " she 
asked, with cruel deliberation. " You think 
you be the prapper zort ov man, do 'ee ? 
You do think I had a poreish specimen of a 

man ? Why, you bain't vit to be named the 
same day with Peter Luman. And if I 
couldn't stand he^ how do 'ee think 1 could 
stand youy 

Poor Vickery was so abashed that he rose 
up, put on his helmet, and murmured that 
he would be going. 

" Oh ! no, you bain't," said Mrs. Luman, 
standing with her back against the door. 
" You have had your zay, Zolomon, and it 
be time I got in a word, I 'low. Do 'ee 
mean to zay that after hearen my opinions 
on husbands you had the impidence to come 
here tryen to court I ? " 

Mr. Vickery was silent. 

"Answer, will 'ee ? " demanded Mrs. 
Luman, who was enjoying the situat'jn 

" Iv I did, Zarey, I can't zee it be any 
harm," replied Mr. Vickery doggedly. " It 
do show that I respected 'ee above all other 
women. You zee," continued the constable, 
with a stroke of genius, " I did never think 
nothen of women nohow. I did think a 
wife be a plague to a man till I zee you. 
Zays I, " No wife for Zol, thank 'ee all the 

" And zo you did come here a-tryen to 
court I. A pretty slight to put on a woman 
who has my views, bain't it ! Do 'ee think 
you be the zort of a man to make a woman 
go back on her word ? " 

" I — I love 'ee, do 'ee zee." 

" Love ? Farden candles ! You came 
here not caren one atom about my repytation. 
A vine tale to get round, that I have men- 
volks courten I ! " 

It had taken Mr. Vickery some weeks to 
gather together sufficient courage to propose, 
but he felt he never would have had enough 
had he guessed how unpleasant it would be. 
His sole desire now was to get away. 

" I be very zorry," he said, making a step 
nearer the door. " I'll be gwain now. I'll 
not come again." 

" There, if that bain't just like Peter was ! 
He'd have his zay like all the men, and tlien 
would never listen to a word, as if a pore 
woman's tongue was only an ornament. 
You bain't gwain till I have done with 'ee. 
Who put you up to this ? " 

" Nobody." 

" Be you sure ? Haven't 'ee been tellen 
everybody that you be a-courten up at the 
doctor's ? " 

" I never zaid nothen to nobody." 

" And a lucky thing vor 'ee, I 'low. It be 
bad enough tryen to make a vooil of I, 
without tellen everybody. Now look here," 



' Jt was a glass of old and heady port that braced his nerves 
on that momentous occasion." 

added Mrs. Liiinan, who Avas very unwilling 
to lose Mr. Yickerj's visits, " you'll come 
here just as avore, or volks will be zayen 
that we have had a lovers' tiff, or zome such 
nonsense " (with a snort) — " you'll come the 
zame as avore, mind 'ee. But don't 'ee ever 
think I shall change my mind. I tell 'ee 
agen that I've tried one man, and it be like 
taken a mouthful of a bad ^gg — you don't 
want another. When Peter came a-courten 
I, he was that nice and sweet that you'd have 
zaid he was too good to live long — the 
deceiven wretch ! He turned out the biggest 
scamp that ever swore to love and cherish a 
woman, and I didn' shed dree tears when he 
w^as drownded. And now you may go, and 
you'll look in the zame as usual ; and if you 
vallies your peace of mind, you'll tell nobody 
as you made a vooil of yourself, and tried to 
make one of I. Good-night, Mr. Yickery. 
It do look like rain, don't it ? " 

Mr. Yickery, without a word, went out into 
the chilly night, and walked nearly two miles 
before he relieved his feelings by a very 

improper word. For months he had been 
dreaming delicious dreams, and this was the 
reality. " Drat the woman ! " he muttered. 

>H * * i\i ^ 

The poor, rejected lover had been straitly 
commanded to keep the affair to himself, but 
it was not because Mrs. Luman wished it 
kept secret. In fact, she intended the whole 
village to know ; but she wanted to tell the 
news herself, that it might be shaped to her 
liking. Unfortunately, it was between nine 
and ten, and as three-fourths of the village 
would have retired, she could not confide in 
anyone that night ; but as early as possible 
the next morning she ran down to the post- 
office. Our post-office is kept by Mrs. 
Widge, who performs her duty on behalf of 
Her Majesty at one counter, and sells 
groceries at the other. She also deals very 
extensively in news and gossip. For local 
affairs she is more reliable than a local paper. 
She has the true journalistic instinct, for she 
has been accused of manipulating news with 
a view to rendering it more "spicy," and 



even of manufacturing it in times of 
d 3artli. 

" Gooi-marnen, Betty," said Mrs. Luman. 
'' l^et I have six stamps." 
'•How be 'ee, Zarey ?" 
" How be I ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
" Whatever be amusen you, Zarey ? " 
" Oil, dear, it will kiU I ! H' I tells you, 
you will keep it to yourself, Betty ? " 

" You know I never be one for gossipen 
about other volks," said Mrs. Widge rather 
severely. " It'll be zafe wich I. Come in 
the house and sit down vor a minute." 

" I mustn't stay," said Mrs. Luman, but 
went in, nevertheless. " Oh, dear, Betty, I 
be quite zore," rubbing her sides gently. 

" Do 'ee zee, Betty, Vickery have been comen 
pretty often to zee as things be locked up 
and all right generally. At times I've given 
him a glass and told him what I thinks ov 
husbands. Well, last night" — Mrs. Luman 
interrupted her narrative to indulge in a one- 
minute peal of laughter — " he got zo bold as 
to propose to I." 

" Kever ! " said Mrs. Widge, much 

" You may well be surprised. He did ask 
I to marry him. Zaid I be the very woman 
vor him, and all thik nonsense. Didn' I let 
him have it, just about ! * I've tried one 
man ; I bain't tryen another,' I told him. 
The pore man wished he could sink through 


' ' He got 550 bold as to propose to I.* 
' Never ! ' said Mrs. Wid^e, much phocked," 



the vloor avore I'd done. You would Lave 
laughed. Ha ! ha ! " 

"Of all I ever heard, Zarey ! '' 

" It be true. He be in love with I, he 
did zaj. Oh, dear, it be killen I ! But 
you'll not zay a word, mind. It would serve 
him right to let everybody know, but I'll 
have mercy on him. Good-marnen." 

On her way back Mrs. Luman halted to 
confide the secret to two other gossips. It 
was quite unnecessary, for Mrs. Widge did 
her duty admirably. Before her shop closed 
she had repeated the story eleven times ; and 
so familiar had it become that she was able 
to add several picturesque details of her own. 

Poor Vickery ! What he had had to 
endure from the loved one was nothing to 
the facetious condolences and mock sympathy 
he met with from every side. How the 
story had got about he could not imagine, 
and he trembled at every knock at the door 
lest it was Mrs. Luman come to call him to 

>'^ >^ i'' ♦ '? 

For some months he did not go near the 
doctor's ; but gradually the fires of love, that 
had only been deadened, not extinguished, 
burst into flam.e again, and sheepishly he 
ventured near the widow once more. To his 
grateful astonishment she did not refer to 
the matter. " Haven't zeen 'ee about lately, 
Zolomon," she said. " Won't 'ee step in and 
have a glass ? " 

Yickery did step in, and in a few minutes 
was quite at home again. He resumed his 
daily calls, and listened patiently to the 
housekeeper's diatribes on the sorry race of 
creatures called husbands. 

Solomon Yickery's love was not an ephe- 
meral passion, to be killed by one blow. As 
time went on his courage returned, and at 
last he ventured to put the all-important 
question again. 

"I thought," said Mrs. Luman fiercely, 
" that you had got out of thik nonsense, 
Yickery. I tell 'ee, once vor all, I've tried 
one man, and when I try another I shall be 
that minute vit vor the 'sylum. I be very 
comfortable here ; do 'ee think I be a born 
vooil, to leave it for the best man as ever 
stepped — if there be any best among 'em ? " 

" Look 'ee here," responded Yickery, with 
admirable firmness, " I be gwain to try and 
try agen, and zo I tell 'ee. Becos one man 
be no good, it hain't vair to think all 
the rest of we be the zame." With that 
declaration he put on his helmet and stalked 

Mrs. Luman followed him to the door to 

liave the last word. " Yery well, Zol Yickery, 
if you want to spend all your days tryen to 
grab the moon, well and good ; but it hain't 
the sort of thing volks have a right to expect 
vrom a man your age, and one that wears 
Queen Yictorey's uniform." 

For a matter of seven years or so the con- 
stable laid siege to the strong-minded widow's 
heart, but in vain. Regularly once a month 
he proposed. He used all the arguments he 
could think of. " You be getten wold, 
Zarey," he said once, " and the doctor won't 
live for ever. What will you do if anythen 
happens to he ? You'll have to look out for 
a fresh place, and p'r'aps not get taken. And 
it struck I the other day," added the con- 
stable, with a deplorable disregard for the 
truth, " that the doctor be agein' vast." 

" Rubbish," said Mrs. Luman contemp- 
tuously ; " the doctor will outlive you, I 
'low ! " 

All the village knew of Yickery's hopeless 
passion. The doctor, when he met him, 
would rally him about it, and ask if she were 

" Not yet," Yickery would answer stoutly. 
" But I hain't gwain to be conquered by no 

"Well done, Yickery. I admire your 
courage. When the wedding comes off I'll 
make you a handsome present." 

>'f. sl< :!: :H * 

It is now two or three winters back, when 
Yickery's siege had endured over seven years, 
that there came a crisis in the history of this 
doleful love affair. Our quiet district that 
winter was disturbed and excited by news of 
daring burglaries. Elmwood Hall, at Yerden, 
only ten miles from us, was broken into one 
Sunday night when the family were at church, 
and Lady Elm wood's jewels stolen. A fort- 
night later another successful burglary was , 
carried out at Sir William Frayle's place. The 
Grange ; and the footman who heard the 
noise, and gave chase to the thieves, was shot 
in. the side and dangerously wounded. The 
Grange is only four miles away, and timid 
souls grew nervous as the hours of night 
came on. "You never know nowadays," 
said Mrs. Widge, " whether you won't get up 

Constable Yickery walked our roads in 
those eventful days with an added import- 
ance, which is saying much, for when on duty 
he never forgot the dignity of his office. His 
manner seemed to say, " Good people, do not 
alarm yourselves. Am not I on duty ? " 

Some of the women took heart from his 
confident bearing. " I'll tell 'ee what," said 



one, " there bain't any robbers tomfools 
enough to ventur' where Vickerj be. We 
can sleep quiet." 

Bj a coincidence, which Mr. Vickerj came 
to look upon as providential, the doctor was 
called to Dublin to see his brother, who was 
on the point of death ; and E r. Sibley, of 
Roley, the nearest village, was performing 
his duties, Tlie evening after the turglary at 
The Grange, Mr. Vickery found Mr. . Luman 
more agitated than he had ever seen her 
before, and she soundly rated him for his 
cheerful countenance. '* How dare 'ee look 
so unconcerned," she cried, " when we be in 
danger of bein' found murdered ! " 

" There be no danger," he said soothingly. 
" No burglars will come here, I 'low." 

" Ugh ! how do 'ee know that ? How 
would 'ee Mke to sleep alone in this house, 
and they villains about ? " 

Mr. Vickery looked at her with curious 
interest. '* Zarey, you hain't avraid of 
burglars, be 'ee ? " 

'' Yes, I be," she snapped. " They do get 
on my nerves. Ugh ! " and she shivered. 

Suddenly an idea struck the constable, 
and by hypocritical expressions of sympathy 
he extracted from her the confession that, in 
spite of her strong mind, she was addicted 
to the truly feminine practice of looking 
under the bed and in the cupboards before 
retiring, to assure herself that none of the 
hideous tribe were lurking there. 

" Sleep in peace," said the constable, as he 
bade lier good - night. " I'll keep a 

" Mind you do," said Mrs. Luman rather 

Mr. Vickery resumed his beat in a highly 
elated frame of mind. By chance he had 
discovered that excellent w^oman's one weak- 
ness, and as he paced the lanes he was 
considering how he could take full advantage 
of it. He chuckled repeatedly. 

The next day he was seen talking for a 
long time with Tom Fry, the baker's harum- 
scarum son, doubtless warning him about 
some of his evil practices. 

That evening he went to see Mrs. Luman 
with a very grave face, and it was only after 
pressing him repeatedly that she got him to 
unburden himself. " Well, Zarey," he said, 
"I never thought to have zeen it in this 
parish, but they burglars be about. I 
zeen dree ov 'em last night. I chased 'em, 
but they were too quick vor L" 

This untruthful tale had the effect 
intended. She never could stay in the 

house all night by herself, Mrs. Luman 
declared again and again. Vickery laughed 
at her. "A woman as can do without a 
husband," he said, as he was going, "shouldn't 
be avraid ov thieves." 

She begged and prayed him to keep his eye 
on the house all night ; and the constable, 
after being treated to a hot supper and " a 
drap or two of wdne to warm him," departed, 
vowing he would keep his eye on the house 
all night. 

Soon after midnight Mrs. Luman was 
awakened by the noise of broken glass. She 
sat up, trembling with apprehension. Her 
agitation increased when she heard loud 
noises from the kitchen. There was no 
doubt about it — a gang of burglars were in 
the kitchen. She dared not scream, but 
covered her head with the bedclothes in a 
vain endeavour to shut out the awful sounds. 
Her one hope w^as that the miscreants would 
confine themselves to the kitchen. 

But, alas ! presently the kitchen door was 
opened, and with a loud clatter they began 
to mount the stairs. She would not be 
murdered in her bed without one cry for 
help, and, springing up, she opened the 
window and gave a terrified scream of 
" Murder ! " 

Constable Vickery came running up the 
next instant. " Zarey, what be wrong ? " he 

" Oh, Zol," she gasped, " thieves— they be 
come — to murder I. Help ! " and she sank 
down, nearer fainting than she had ever been 
in her life. 

" Don't 'ee fear, Zarey. I'll soon have 
'em out," and Mr. Vickery got in by the 
window, and presently with a whoop was 
chasing the thief down the drive. 

Out in the road the thief stopped until the 
constable reached him. 

"Well done, Tom," said Vickery, nigh 
choking with laughter ; " here be the 
sovereign. But mum's the word, mind. 
Go straight hwome." 

Mr. Vickery returned to the house. 
" Zarey," he called softly. 

" Oh, Zol," she said, peeping out, " where 
—where be they ? " 

" They be gone. Dress yourself and come 
down, and I'll tell 'ee about it. I be comen 
in to zee what they have done." 

Mr. Vickery, carrying a candle, met the 
trembling damsel at the foot of the stairs 
and escorted her to the kitchen. " Come on, 
Zarey," he said tenderly, " they be gone. 
Poor woman ! what a fright you have had." 
He put his arm round her waist without 



"'Zarey,' he said, 'you will have to marry I." 

resistance. She looked round the disordered " Dree or vour," repHed the constable 

kitchen, sank into a chair, and burst into tears. without a blush. " I come in by the windy, 

" Oh, Zol," she sobbed, " but for you they do 'ee zee, and met 'em as they be tryen to 

would have murdered I. How many were run out. I thought I was done vor. They 

there ? " tripped I up, and I veil, or I should have 



nabbed one ov 'em. I was up in a jifiFj and 
after 'em ; bub the scoundrels were too quick 
vor me, and got awaj, and I came back to 
zee you." 

"Thank 'ee, thank 'ee. They'd have 
murdered I," and she sobbed again. 

The constable felt it was a decisive moment. 

" Zarey," he said, taking her tenderly in 
his arms, but speaking firmly, " you will have 
to marry I. You must have a man to take 
care ov 'ee after this. If I'd taken offence, 
and not been near you, you'd have been 
murdered at this very minit. You'll marry 
me, Zarey ? " 

" I— don't—know." 

" But you must make up your mind. If 
you'll marry I, there will be no more of this 
work. Zay you will, my dear." 

The horrors of the last half-hour came 
thick on her mind and overwhelmed her. 
" Well, I will, Zol ; but I never thought " 

He stopped her with a kiss. " I'll make 'ee 
the best of husbands. This day month we'll 
be married. Where do 'ee keep the brandy ? 
You need a drap, and I could do with a mouth- 
ful, vor I never expected to be alive after 
tusslen with they villains." 

He sat with her till the dawn appeared, and 
then went home well content. 

If only Tom Fry would keep his mouth 
shut all would be well ; and he saw that 
young gentleman, and, after giving him an 
extra ten shillings, impressed upon him the 
fact that he bad committed a felony, and if 
he blabbed would assuredly fall into the 
clutches of the law. 

"It won't help 'ee to zay I told 'ee. I 
might get dismissed, but it would be vive 
years' penal vor you, my boy." 

Tom was greatly impressed, and promised 
to be as secret as the grave. 

The burglary, Mrs. Luman's peril, and 
Yickery's bravery roused the excitement of 
the village to fever heat, and the story 
received many dramatic ornaments in passing 
from lip to lip. Yickery's terrific fight with 
the fifteen ruffians gave rise to much hero- 
worship ; and when, the following Sunday, 
the banns were published for the first time, 
nobody laughed— it was only right that Sol 
should be rewarded " that way, if he were zo 
minded," and both he and Sarah were con- 
gratulated on the romantic sequel to the night 
of horror. The doctor gave away the bride 
and provided the wedding-feast, at which he 
made a speech extoUing the domestic virtues of 
the bride and the bravery and perseverance 
of the bridegroom. 

Six months passed, and Mr. Yickery found 
married life all that he had pictured it. But, 
alas ! young Mr. Fry, who was quite reckless 
when he had had a few glasses of beer, hinted 
one night that he knew a thing or two about 
"that there burglary," and on being plied 
with liquor told the whole story. 

It w^as so remarkable that at first the 
listeners refused to believe it, but when Tom 
had been minutely cross-examined, and had 
told all that Yickery had said to him, wild 
hilarity was enthroned among them. Our 
village kept uncommonly late hours that 
night, for the goodman had to tell his wife, 
and when she had enjoyed it there was calling 
in on neighbours that they might share in the 
good things. Mrs. Hoiley and Mrs. James, 
who had not been on speaking terms for three 
months, were reconciled on that historic night, 
for Mrs. James looked in at Hoiley's and said, 
" You haven't heard the news, I s'pose ? " 
and stepped in and told it. Enmity could 
not flourish in such a sea of mirth, and Mrs. 
James stayed to share a second supper. There 
was one common wish in the village : every- 
body would have given fabulous amounts to 
be present at the interview between husband 
and wife " when Zarey know^ed." 

It was Mrs. Widge who, the next morning, 
" let Zarey know." She had borrowed Mrs. 
Yickery's smoothing-iron, and she returned 
it herself. She almost ran, lest anyone should 
be before her, but Providence was kind. 

"I've brought 'ee back thease iron, and 
thank 'ee, Zarey," said Mrs. Widge, sinking 
down exhausted in the first chair. 

" Oh, thank 'ee ; but I bain't in no hurry 
vor it. You be out ov breath, Betty." 

" Ees, just a little. Zims closish to I thease 

" I didn' vind it myself," said Mrs. Yickery. 

Mrs. Widge expressed herself sapiently and 
at some length on the weather, on the post- 
office work, and on the letter she had had 
from her sister. It was not until she got up 
to go that she said, with a little laugh, " How 
do Yickery suit 'ee now, Zarey ? " 

" Ob, he be all right," said Mrs. Yickery 
with decision. " He do know his place, do 
'ee zee." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! he be a cunnen old vox, to 
play with 'ee like he did, vor all that ! Don't 
'ee think zo now, honest, Zarey ? " 

"Play with I?" gasped Mrs. Yickery in 
perplexity. " How do 'ee mean ? " 

" Now don't 'ee go vor to pretend, Zarey ; 
young Tom Yry have let it out at last. I 'low 
I didn' think Yickery could be so cunnen. 
We couldn' help but laugh when we knowed." 



" On being plied with liquor told the whole story." 

" Tom Vry ? What do 'ee iiieaii ? I know 
nothen about Tom Yry." 

" Why, Zarej, you don't mean to say 
Vickery played that trick on 'ee and never 
told 'ee afterwards ? We thought as you 

Mrs. Yickery went and shut the door, 
motioned her friend to a chair, and taking 
another herself said, " Now you'll tell I what 
you be driven at." 

Mrs. Widge was nothing loth. She enjoyed 
the recital amazingly, but Mrs. Yickery did 
not see the humour of it. " Thank 'ee, Betty," 
she said at last. " Now, iv you be a true vriend 
to I, you'll tell everybody as I know^ed all 

" Oert'inly I will, Zarey. Ov course it be 
only as a true vriend would. Well, well, Zol 
cert'inly have been a perse veren sweetheart." 
And laughter had her in its grip again. 

Mrs. Widge, with a due sense of what was 
expected of her, faithfully repeated the whole 
conversation as well as she could remember it. 

Mrs. Yickery went upstairs, threw her 
apron over her head, and wept at intervals 
for nearly half an hour. Poor Yickery, all 
unconscious that the plot had been revealed, 
came home punctually at twelve, filled with 
pleasurable anticipations. He had purchased 
a duck earlier in the week, and they were 
to dine on it that day, and his mind fondly 



dwelt on that tender bird, and the carrots 
and turnips, baked potatoes, and excellent 
home-brewed that were to accompany it. 

He entered the room in his shirt-sleeves. 
" Well, nij dear, be the duck ready ? " he said 
clieerfuUy, and seated himself at the table. 

Zarey did not answer, but busied herself 
with taking up the dinner. Yickery carefully 
whetted the carver, and as Zarey placed the 
bird on the table he said, " My goodness ! but 
it do zmell relishable. Put it over here, my 
dear, and let I carve it." 

Zarey took up the dish and threw the bird 
into the coal-scuttle, where it was quickly 
followed by the vegetables. 

" Zarey, my dear ! " gasped Yickery in 
horror, " whatever be 'ee doen ? Zarey, what 
be the matter ? " 

" What be the matter ? Tom Yry be the 
matter ! Maken Min ov a pore woman be 
the matter ! Breaking the laws be the 
matter ! Marryen a husband as'll vind his- 
self in gaol for house-breaken be the matter ! 
Maken I the common laughen-stock be the 
matter I Been deceived into marryen a cun- 
nen fat old wretch that only thinks ov eaten 
and drinken be the matter ! Iv you can 
waste thirty shillens in deceiven, I can waste 
a dinner, I 'low. Any mwore ? " 

Yickery sat for a minute in helplessness ; 
then he said with genuine fervour, " Hang 
young Tom Yry ! I'll vry en brown to- 

" It hain't Tom Yry, it be Zol Yickery as 
put en up to it." Zarey's voice was reaching 
the shrill tones that are closely allied to tears. 

" Zarey, don't 'ee take on, my dear, don't 

'ee, now^ I did it because I wanted 'ee, do 
'ee zea. It w^as the only way to get 'ee as I 
could zee. Let we be peaceable now% do 'ee. 
Iv volks zee you be put out, they'll laugh at 
we, just about. Come now% make it up, 
do 'ee." 

But Mrs. Yickery was not to be appeased. 
Although unconscious of it, that day was 
Yickery's Waterloo. At one swoop the reins 
passed from liis lingers ; liereafter he was 
second in his own home. Out of doors he 
was armed with all the terrors of the law ; in- 
doors the suggestive took the place of the 
imperative mood, and at times even that was 
snubbed. He rarely speaks up for himself, 
it is whispered, though on one occasion he 
did retort that if he had known what she was 
going to be he would have " zeen hisself 
vurder before he had made any eiforts to win 

" Ah, my man," rejoined the good lady 
triumphantly, " but you didn' know. I'll 
teach 'ee to make I the laughen-stock avore 
I've done with 'ee." 

Perhaps the hardest thing the constable has 
to bear is his wife's neW'-born dislike to the 
smell of tobacco, and the poor man has to 
smoke surreptitiously. Mrs. Yickery, it is 
said, goes over his pockets at night and im- 
pounds any pipes or weed she may find. 

Sarah Yickery is certainly a woman who 
looks well to the w^ays of her household. 
Yickery is taken good care of, and the house 
is a model of comfort and cleanliness, but.the 
correct style of address of the worthy couple 
is emphatically " Mrs. and Mr. Yickery," with 
the accent on the first. 


Ill assail me if I fail thee, 

Shouldst thou call to me in vain, 

Should mine eyes mistake their lodestar, 
Or my homage find its wane. 

Dole attend me if I send thee 
E'en one hour's cark or care, 

Should dark trouble's brood o'ertake thee. 
Grief draw near and I not there. 

Woe await me if I treat thee 
E'er less fondly hence than now, 

Should my touch bring tribulation, 
Strike the sunshine from thy brow. 

Blight o'erwhelm me, sorrow helm me. 
If to stranger-shrines my glance 

E'er should wander, thine forgetting. 
Be my days one long mischance. 

Constance Sutcliffe. 



I)V F. Klkkmann 

rhnlu In/] 

[ Vcdenline tfc .'Sons, Daadui. 


HE most popular of lioridoii musicians 
is undoubtedly Sir Frederick Bridge. 
He lias attained this distinction 
through the sheer force of his personahty, 
for there never was a man less given to self- 
advertisement, or more callously and persis- 
tently deaf to the importunities of editors, 
interviewers, and the whole army of Society 
paragraphists. Not that he is unapproach- 
able under ordinary circumstances — quite 
the reverse ; he is one of the kindest hearted 
of men in a profession where petty jealousies 
and magnanimous generosities jostle one 
another in a curious manner. Sir Frederick's 
tendency to help '' lame dogs over stiles " 
whenever he meets them must add consider- 
ably to the wear and tear of his life's work, 
I fancy. 

A man lias to pay a certain penalty when 
he is gifted with a perfect genius for winning 
the admiration of the public ; and Sir 
Frederick Bridge must realise this when he 
attacks his daily budget of letters. The 
position he occupies in the musical world 
brings him into touch with an immense 
audience, inasmuch as he holds not merely 
one important post, but many. As the 
organist of Westminster Abbey his name is 


familiar, not only to liondoners, but to the 
whole of the civilised world ; our Abbey, 
with its grand musical service and its organ 
that stands without a rival anywhere, is a 
centre towards which all tourists gravitate at 
least once in their lifetime. It is the very 
first place into which our American cousins 
precipitate themselves, after landing in 
breathless haste and taking some hurried 
refreshment on our foggy shores ; and one 
of the most haunting memories that Colonials 
carry with them to the great plains and 
mountains " out beyond " is the recollection 
of that grey old pile, where organ and choir 
intermingle their voices and make one vast 
sea of sound. 

It often happens that visitors who have 
travelled some tens of thousands of miles — 
more or less — to see the Abbey and hear the 
music, are anything but satisfied with the 
indistinct silhouette, above the choir-screen, 
that is pointed out to them as no less im- 
portant a personage than the famous organist 
himself. True, those with extra long sight 
will sometimes aver that the figure wears 
glasses (though such a statement always 
inclines one to suspect a previous acquaint- 
ance with Sir Frederick's photographs !) ; 



but, apart from this, one can actually see 
very little of the musician himself, beyond 
a misty halo (according to the position of 
the sun), which one admits is a very appro- 
priate background under the circumstances. 

English people are, as a rule, quite willing 
to accept the halo and go on their way re- 
joicing, but not so our transatlantic relatives. 

" Now, I just guess I haven't come three 
thousand miles (and three thousand back, 
that'll make six 
thousand) to • 
see this dear 
Abbey and the 
lovely graves of 
and Tennyson, 
and Handel, 
and the rest, 
and hear all 
those 'cute 
little boys sing, 
without getting 
a bigger sight 
of Sir Bridge 
than that little 
speck up there. 
Why, he might 
just as well be 
McKinley for 
all I can tell!" 

Thus spake 
a delightful 
Boston girl, 
who was kindly 
showing me 
around my own 
native city! I 
explained that 
"Sir Bridge" 
and the Presi- 
dent of the 
United States 
bore not the 
very slightest 
outward re- 
semblance to 

Copyright photo by] 

one another, 
though I had 

found them to be marvellously alike in the 
matter of strong personality and unfailing 
courtesy, and in order to prove my statement 
I was unwise enough to lead her in the direc- 
tion of a certain door marked " Private, no 
admittance," in one of the byways of the 
Abbey, which I knew led to the organ-loft. 
Evidently many other persons knew this, too ; 
quite a small crowd of people were waiting 
about expectantly. I kept Miss Bostonia 


well in the background, knowing the irre- 
pressibility of her temperament. Presently 
the door opened, and a sedate young man 
emerged, with an absorbed, thoughtful 
air and a large roll of music. The 
small gathering looked admiringly upon him, 
fell back to mane way for him, and then 
followed, eagerly, bo.t at a respectful distance. 
" There he is," said mj companion excitedly, 
preparing to make a headlong rush for him. 

He was a pleas- 
- ing looking 
youth, and pos- 
sibly might not 
have been 
averse to being 
shaken hands 
with on behalf 
of all the maid- 
. ens in Massa- 
chusetts. But 
I detained her 
— much against 
her will, I ad- 
mit. It was 
useless for me 
to explain that 
that was 7iot 
"Sir Bridge"; 
she merely re- 
torted, "Then, 
if he isn't, why 
are all the 
people foUow- 
i n g li i m ? " 
AVhich was an 
piece of logical 
deduction, and 
I didn't care 
to betray the 
secrets of my 
country so far 
as to explain to 
her that I en- 
tertained cer- 
tain suspicions 
that the affair 
was nothing 
more than a little ruse. When the crowd 
had been thus decoyed away, the door again 
opened, and a tall figure appeared, carrying 
a square cap and peering slightly to right 
and left through his glasses. Then he 
made his way towards the cloisters, uncon- 
scious of the two figures loitering in the 
shadows. I let him get well out of reach 
before I said, "That was Sir Frederick." 
With wide-opened eyes she exclaimed, " You 

Ifhirnham, 421, Brixton Road. 


don't say ! " and then added, after an 
interval of silence, dr. ring which she had 
evidently grasped and digested the situation, 
" Well, and if that isn't just too cunning for 
anything ! " 

But though Sir Frederick Bridge does his 
best to evade the pronounced attentions of 
the celebrity-hunter, he will put himself to 
actual trouble if he can be of real assistance 
to anyone. I can spare space to recall only 
one such incident, but this was very charac- 
teristic of the man himself. It was in the 
old days of the Gresham Musical Lectures, 
when they were held at Gresham College, 
in Basinghall Street, and not, as they are 
now, in the roomy great hall of the City of 
London School. Two enthusiastic musical 
students had hurried to the lecture at a pace 
that argued more zeal than discretion. The 
hall was packed, although there w^as still 
half an hour to spare. Yet they managed to 
edge a way in somehow ; and then it was 
that the airlessness of the room, combined, 
perhaps, with the previous scamper across 
the City, resulted in a prosaic " faint" ! The 
invalid was assisted downstairs again into 
a cooler atmosphere, the only seat visible 
being a large carved arm-chair in the 
entrance-hall, evidently sacred to the use 
of an imposing-looking, gold-laced individual 
who stood beside it, representative of civic 
dignity and authority. The circumstances 
being briefly explained, he graciously gave 
consent for the chair to be utilised. At that 
moment a door opened and Sir Frederick 
(then Dr.) Bridge crossed the vestibule. 
" Mr. Bumble " saluted obsequiously, and as 
the Doctor turned to acknowledge it he 
caught sight of the forlorn couple, who were 
entire strangers to him. He stepped over to 
them and said, " Have you come to the 
lecture ? or are you waiting for somebody ? 
or " 

"The lady hain't feeling well, sir," 
interposed the magnificent official, jerking 
his cocked hat in the direction of the chair. 
" 'Eat of the room," he added by way of 
a lucid and exhaustive explanation. 

" Then why in the world, man, didn't you 
get some water ? " And in a moment the 
Doctor had returned with a liberal supply. 
Having been thus restored, that student 
desired— -with the energy that only belongs 
to one's youth, alas !— to risk once more the 
carbonic acid gas in order to hear the 
lecture. But the audience by this time 
extended down the staircase in a most hope- 
less manner. Dr. Bridge called an attendant, 
however, and told him to take the two up a 

private staircase, and give them seats in the 
front row, reserved for the City Fathers, 
remarking, " Put them under an open 
window and in a strong draught ! " Then 
turning to them he said, " And if either of 
you contemplate another faint this evening, 
please do not do so in the middle of one of 
my best speeches. I will make a convenient 
pause if I observe that you are getting pale. 
And when you are suffering from a stiff neck 
all next week, I hope you will think kindly 
of me ! " 

I ought to add, however, for the benefit 
of those who propose to attend future 
Gresham Lectures, that there is ample 
ventilation in the City of London School, 
also a handy supply of water outside, while 
the hall-porters now relieve Sir Frederick of 
the task of administration. 

The Gresham Lectures on Music bring 
Professor Bridge into touch with a very 
different audience to the one he is accus- 
tomed to at the Abbey. At Westminster it 
is the leisured sightseer who listens to him 
daily, whereas his lectures are crowded with 
students and busy City men. The great 
secret of his success lies in his happy 
sense of humour and his overwhelming 
enthusiasms. Whatever subject he has in 
hand, for the time being he clothes it with 
an importance that at once communicates 
itseK to his audience. 

The first time I heard of the now long 
past Purcell Commemoration remains vividly 
in my mind. It was a wretched, cold winter 
day. The Abbey looked lonely and mys- 
terious in the fog, and all the bare trees in 
Dean's Yard were glistening in a coating of 
hoar-frost. I shivered as I walked along the 
cloisters to that portion of the Abbey known 
as Littleton Tower, where Sir Frederick 
resides. But the glow from the big fire in 
the study gave a more optimistic colour to 
life. One forgot all about the cold, looking 
out of the picturesque square window on to 
the still more picturesque gables and quaint 
corners outside, and thinking how delightful 
it must be to live in an abbey, and in 
Westminster Abbey above all others. That 
study, by the way, has an unusually musical 
history. It was at one time occupied by 
the late Sir Joseph Barnby (whom Sir 
Frederick Bridge also succeeded as conductor 
of the Royal Choral Society), and the tiles 
round the fireplace bear the initials J. B., 
which Mkewise serve for the present tenant, 
Sir Frederick's first name being John. 

On the morning in question Sir Frederick 
Bridge was even more cheery than usual. 



Photo by] U'- J- Wrigkt. 


" Now I am going to show you a real 
treasure," he said excitedly, after we had 
been talking for a while. 

" Oh ! " laughed Lady Bridge, " I know 
what it is, and I have heard it before, so I 
shall go ! " 

But the Doctor persisted that it did not 
matter hoiv many times she had heard it 
before, it would certainly bear hearing again. 

He then produced an old, faded, yellow, 
worn book of manuscript music, and tenderly 
opened it. 

" What is it ? " I asked. 

" What is it ? Why, it is the original 
MS. of the Purcell Te Deum that there has 
been so much controversy about ; and here 
are all the corrections and annotations in 
PurceWs own handwriting.'''' 



It was a most interesting relic. Every- 
thing was so clearly legible. The whole 
work was in Purcell's writing, and he had 
even written the names of the soloists who 
were to sing certain solos — names as long 
since dead as the hand that wrote them. 

The MS. had come into the Doctor's pos- 
session quite by accident. A man whom he 

Photo by] 


did not kno vV, brought it to him one day, and 
asked him if he cared to make an offer for it. 

" After I had examined it, and saw what it 
really was, I told him that either his bones or 
the MS. would remain behind in the Abbey," 
said the Doctor, "and he preferred the latter." 

There was also a little song, just roughly 
scribbled on a spare blank leaf, the last in 
the book. Evidently Purcell had jotted it 

down hurriedly on the first scrap of paper he 
came across, meaning to deal with it later on. 
The words were written against the music. 

" You see, I got two things for my money," 
said Sir Frederick, as he sat down to the piano, 
and played and sang the quaint little song. 

As I have already stated. Sir Frederick's 
sense of humour is by no means the least of 
his saving graces. 
His conversation 
is often a running 
fire of witty mots 
and smart repartee. 
The very smallest 
event will serve 
him. Not long ago 
the following notice 
was fastened up in 
the Music Eoom at 

The Great and Swell 
occupants of the Organ 
Loft invite the Choir, 
if they can descend 
Solo(w), to a friendly 
Manual and Pedal Ex- 
ercise, entitled Cricket. 
Every Player is re- 
quested to provide a 
F'ull Score, and it is 
hoped many 7'uns will 
be executed, though no 
"great shakes" are ex- 
pected. All particulars 
to be settled at the re- 
hearsal onTuesday next 
at a quarter to Eleven. 

P.S.-~A Ball-Proof 
Cuirass will be pro- 
vided, and a doctor will 

This brilliant 
musician can use 
his pen very effec- 
tively when he 
pleases, as his 
clever parody on 
"Sally in our 
Alley " bears wit- 
ness, in which he 
sings the praises of 
his friend, Mr. 
Labouchere, M.P. 
and editor of Truth, 
and one of the several distinguished person- 
ages who reside within the Abbey precincts. 


Of all the boys that are so smart 

There's none like crafty Labby : 
He learns the secret of each heart, 

And lives near our Abbey. 
There is no lawyer in the land 

That's half as sharp as Labby ; 
He is a demon in the art, 

And guileless as a babby I 



For " Bomba Balfour" in the week 

There seems to be no worse day 
Than is the one that comes between 

A Tuesday and a Thursday. 
For then we read each foul misdeed, 

" Unmanly, mean and shabby," 
Exposed to view in type so true 

By penetrating Labby. 

The ministers and members all 

Make game of truthful Labby, 
Though but for him 'tis said they'd be 

A sleepy set and flabby. 
And when their seven long years are out 

They hope to bury Labby ; 
Ah ! then how peacefully he'll lie, 

But not in our Abbey ' 

As an after-dinner speaker Sir 
Frederick Bridge is always an acqui- 
sition. The following is a fair speci- 
men of the short, bright speeches for 
which he is celebrated. It was madf 
at a banqnet given to Mr. W. JI. 
Cummings, the Principal of tljc 
Guildhall School of Music, and was a 
response to the toast of " Tlie 
Ladies " : — 

" It is really too bad to call upon 
me to {u^knowlcdge r.his toast., nioi'c 




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[Burnham, Brixton Road 


hkii)(;k i\ his Docrous 


csjH'cijilIy as I was just hegiiniing to 
enjoy niysell". It: is, of course, a great 
satisfaction and ])leasure to nui to be 
])rcs('nt hero, foi' our guest was con- 
nected with the Abbey. In my 
young days, before most of you were 
born— at all events, before any of 
the ladies present were born — it was 
the custom to call upon the most 
bashful, the best looking, and most 
shy young man to return thanks for 
the ladies. JN'o violation of this rule 
has been permitted to-night. As the 
honorary secretary himself put it on 
these grounds, of course I could not 
refuse to reply. The new woman is 
to be paramount. Musically, we poor 
men are to be done away with. I 
hope they will be as kind to us as we 
are to them. Of course, I am not 
speaking from experience. Kindness 
to them! Why, just think what 
happens at examinations when there 
are lady and gentleman candidates. 
I have seen an unfortunate youth 
come to play the violin for a diploma, 
and, entering the room, he proceeds 
to tune his instrument. ' C^n't stop 



here all day whilst you are timing,' says an 
examiner. The lad goes away, and then 
advances a lady, bringing her violin in the 
case I And it has not been timed ! What 
occurs ? One of the examiners jumps up 
and undoes the case ; another catches up 
the instrument and tunes it, or tries to. 
A string breaks ! But she is not sent 
out to fetch the next person. You hear 
one German examiner say, ' Sehr schon ! ' 
She passes with honours ! The unfortu- 
nate youth manages only to scrape through. 
In the ladies we all have kind supporters. 
Some have admirers. Some have wives 
whom they dare not bring to such a festive 
gathering. Some have wives like Mr. Oum- 
mings." (" I have only one ! " interpolated 
that gentleman.) " In the name of that one 
wife of his, whom I congratulate upon the 
honour done to her husband, I beg to thank 
you for the way you have drunk this toast." 
As conductor of the Eoyal Choral 
Society's Concerts at Albert Hall, Sir 
Frederick Bridge has proved himself to be 
a man worthy to succeed that king among 
choral conductors w^ho laboured so faithfully 
and so long to bring the choir to as near a 
state of perfection as possible. With the 
Choral Society, as with his Abbey choir, Sir 
Frederick is immensely popular. His re- 
hearsals are never dull, yet he allows not the 

smallest fault to go uncorrected. Of the 
results he obtains I need not speak. All the 
world and his wife and daughters attend the 
Albert Hall Concerts with such regularity 
that any description of these would be a 

Sir Frederick Bridge has had many odd 
experiences, but perhaps the funniest of all 
was when he discovered a small, suspicious- 
looking black bag in the organ-loft, while 
turning over the music just before the 
Jubilee Thanksgiving Service at the Abbey 
in 1887. On opening it gingerly and dis- 
covering a loudly ticking clock within, his 
horror was increased a hundredfold, for 
it was at a time when dynamiters were 
performing many freakish things around 
London, and preparing all sorts of little 
surprises for people in general and royalties 
in particular. Of course the supposed 
" infernal machine " was escorted off the 
premises with as much promptitude and 
despatch as the trembling officials could com- 
mand. It would have been a most heroic 
and exciting affair, of course, had it not 
proved to be a small, harmless American 
clock, that was merely striving to do its duty 
in that station of life, etc. It belonged to 
one of the bandsmen, who had bought it on 
his way to the rehearsal and then had 
inadvertently left his bag behind him. 


By Mrs. Comyns Care. 

Soft, in the dawn, came Love to me — 

Love, that is born of the sun — 
Love that is bred in the lap of the sea 

When the Night and the Day are one. 

He came on the crest of the morning cloud, 
He sprang through the morning mist, 

And laughed as he leapt from his downy shroud 
Where the Sun and the Ocean kissed. 

He struck at my heart with his spear of flame — 

The Sun set the world ablaze — 
And I knew" 'twas for me Love laughed as he came 

And was born of the Sun's sweet rays. 



TlhiHtrated hy Harold Copping. 

*' The Bailie regarded him with grave disapproval." 

IF jou excluded two or three Englishmen 
who spoke with an accent suggestive of 
an effeminate character, and had a fear- 
some habit of walking on the Sabbath, and 
poor "Moossy," the French master at the 
Seminary, who was a quantity not worth 
considering, the foreign element in Muirtown 
during the classical days consisted of the 
Count. He never claimed to be a Count, 
and used at first to deprecate the title, but 

* Copyright, 1900, by John Watson, in the United 
States of America. 


he declined the 
honour w^ith so 
much dignity that 
it seemed only to 
prove his right, and 
by and by he an- 
swered to the name 
with simply a slight 
wave of his hand 
which he meant for 
deprecation, but 
which came to be 
considered a polite 
His real name was 
not known in Muirtown — not 
because he had not given it, 
but because it could not be 
pronounced, being largely 
composed of x's and k's, with 
an irritating parsimony of 
vowels. We had every oppor- 
tunity of learning to spell it, 
if we could not pronounce it, 
for it was one of the Count's 
foreign ways to carry a card- 
case in his ticket-pocket, and 
on being introduced to an 
inhabitant of Muirtown to 
offer his card with the right 
hand while he took off his 
hat with the left and bowed 
almost to a right angle. 
Upon those occasions a solid 
man like Bailie MacFarlane 
would take hold of the card cautiously, not 
knowing whether so unholy a name might 
not go off and shatter his hand, and during 
the Count's obeisance, which lasted for 
several seconds, the Bailie regarded him 
with grave disapproval. The mind of Muir- 
town, during this performance of the Count's, 
used to be divided between regret that any 
human being should condescend to such 
tricks and profound thankfulness that Muir- 
town was not part of a foreign country 
where people were brought up with the 
manners of poodles. Our pity for foreigners 




was nourished bj the manner of the Count's 
dress, which would have been a commonplace 
on a boulevard, but astounded Muirfcown on 
its first appearance, and always lent an 
element of piquant interest to our streets. 
His perfectly brushed hat, broadish in the 
brim and curled at the sides, which he wore 
at the faintest possible angle, down to his 
patent leather boots, which it was supposed 
he obtained in Paris, arid wore out at the 
rate of a pair a month — all was unique and 
wonderful, bub it was his frock-coat which 
stimulated conversation. It was so tight 
and fitted so perfectly, revealing the outHnes 
of his slender form, and there was such an 
indecent absence of waist — waist was a strong 
point with Muirtown men, and in the case of 
persons who had risen to office, like the 
Provost, used to run to forty inches — that a 
report went round the town that the Count 
w^as a woman. This speculation was con- 
firmed rather than refuted by the fact that 
the Count smoked cigarettes, which he mado 
with Satanic ingenuity while you were 
looking at him, and that he gave a dis- 
play of fencing with the best swordsman of 
a Dragoon regiment in the barracks, for 
it was shrewdly pointed out that those were 
just the very accomplishments of French 
" Cutties." This scandal might indeed have 
crystallised into an accepted fact, and the 
Provost been obliged to command the 
Count's departure, had it not been for the 
shrewdness and good nature of the " Fair 
Maid of Muirtown." There always was a 
fair maid in Muirtown — and in those days 
she was fairest of her succession : let this 
flower lie on her grave. She declared to her 
friends that she had watched the Count 
closely and had never once seen him 
examine a woman's dress when the woman 
wasn't looking ; and after that no person of 
discernment in Muirtown had any doubt 
about the Count's sex. It was, however, freely 
said — and that story was never contradicted 
— that he Avore stays, and every effort was 
made to obtain the evidence of his landlady. 
Her gossips tried Mistress Jamieson w^ith 
every wile of conversation, and even lawyer's 
wives, pretending to inquire for rooms for a 
friend, used to lead the talk round to the 
Count's habits ; but that worthy matron 
was loyal to her lodger, and was not quite 
insensible to the dignity of a mystery. 

"Na, na. Mistress Lunan, I see what 
you're after ; but beggin' your pardon, a 
landlady's a landlady, and my mouth's 
closed. The Count disna ken the difference 
atween Saturday and Sabbath, and the 

money he wastes on tobacco juist goes to 
ma heart ; but he never had the blessin' of a 
Gospel ministry nor the privileges of Muir- 
town when he was young. As regards stays, 
whether he wears them or disna wear them 
I'm no prepared to say, for I thank good- 
ness that I've never yet opened a lodger's 
boxes nor entered a lodger's room when he 
was dressin'. The Count pays his rent in 
advance every Monday morning ; he wanted 
to pay on Sabbath, but I told him it was 
not a lawful day. He gives no trouble in 
the house, and if his doctor ordered him to 
wear stays to support his spine, which I'm 
no sayin' he did. Mistress Lunan, it's no 
concern o' mine, and the weather is inclining 
to snow." 

His dress was a perfect fabric of art, 
however it may have been constructed ; and 
it was a pleasant sight to see the Count go 
down our main street on a summer after- 
noon, approving himself with a side glance 
in the mirrors of the larger shops, striking 
an attitude at our bookseller's when a new 
print was exposed in the window, waving 
his cigarette and blowing the smoke through 
his nostrils, which was considered a " tempt- 
ing of Providence," making his respectful 
salutations to every lady whom he knew, 
and responding with " Celestial, my friend ! " 
to Bailie MacFarlane's greeting of "Fine 
growing weather." When he sailed past 
McGuffie's stable-yard, like Solomon in all 
his glory, that great man, who always 
persisted in regarding the Count as a sport- 
ing character, would touch the rim of his 
hat with his forefinger— an honour he paid 
to few — and, after the Count had dis* 
appeared, would say " Gosh ! " Avith much 
relish. This astounding spectacle very early 
attracted the attention of the Seminary boys, 
and during his first summer in Muirtown it 
was agreed that he would make an excellent 
target for snowball practice during next 
winter. The temptation was not one which 
could have been resisted, and it is to be 
feared that the Count would have been 
confined to the house when the snow was on 
the ground had it not been for an incident 
which showed him in a new light, and 
established him, stays or no stays, in the 
respect of the Seminary for ever. There 
had been a glorious fight on the first day of 
the war with the " Pennies," and when they 
were beaten, a dozen of them, making a 
brave rearguard fight, took up their position 
with the Count's windows as their back- 
ground. There were limits to licence even 
in those brave old days, and it was under- 



stood that the windows of houses, especially 
private houses, and still more especially in 
the vicinity of the Seminary, should not be 
broken, and if they were broken the culprits 
were hunted down and interviewed by 
" Bulldog " at length. When the " Pennies " 
placed themselves under the protection of 


The departure of the Count, with Bulldog attending him to the door, 

the Count's glass, which was really an 
unconscious act of meanness on their part, 
the Seminary distinctly hesitated ; but the 
" Sparrow " was in command, and he knew 
no scruples as he knew no fear. 

" Dash the windows ! " cried the Seminary 
captain ; and when the " Pennies " were 
driven along the street, the windows had 

been so effectually " dashed," that there was 
not a sound pane of glass in the Count's 
sitting-room. As the victorious army re- 
turned to their capital, and the heat of 
battle died down, there was some anxiety 
about to-morrow, for Mistress Jamieson was 
not the woman to have her glass broken for 
nothing, and it was 
shrewdly suspected 
that the Count, with 
all his dandyism, 
would not take this 
affront lightly. As 
a matter of fact, 
Mistress Jamieson 
made a personal call 
upon the Eector 
that evening, and 
explained with 
much eloquence to 
that timid, harassed 
scholar that, unless 
his boys were kept 
in better order, 
Muirtown would 
not be a place for 
human habitation ; 
and before she left 
she demanded the 
blood of the 
offenders, and com- 
pared Muirtown 
in its present con- 
dition to Sodom and 
Gomorrah. As the 
Eector was always 
willing to leave 
discipline in the 
capable hands of 
Bulldog, and as the 
chief sinners would 
almost certainly be 
in his class in the 
forenoon, the 
Count, who had 
witnessed the whole 
battle from a secure 
corner in his sit- 
ting-room, and had 
afterwards helped 
Mistress Jamieson 
to clear away the debris, went to give his 
evidence and identify the culprit. He felt 
it to be a dramatic occasion, and he rose to 
its height; and the school retained a grateful 
recollection of Bulldog and the Count side 
by side— the Count carrying himself with 
all the grace and dignity of a foreign 

ambassador come 

to settle an international 



dispute, and Bulldog more austere than ever, 
because he hated a " tell-pjet,'' and yet knew 
that discipline must be maintained. The 
Count explained with many flourishes that 
he was desolated to come for the first time 
to this so distinguished a Gymnasium upon 
an errand so distasteful, but that a lady had 
laid her commands on him (" Dis the body 
mean Lucky Jamieson ? " whispered the 
Sparrow to a neighbour), and he had ever 
been a slave of the sex (Bulldog at this point 
regarded him with a disdain beyond words). 
The Rector of this place of learning had 
also done him, an obscure person, 
the honour of an invitation to 
come and assist at this function 
of justice ; and although, as the 
Count explained, he was no 
longer a soldier, obedience was 
still the breath of his nostrils. 
Behold him, therefore, the 
servant of justice, ready to / 
be questioned or to lay down 
his life for law ; and the ? 

day, sir," and Bulldog's glance conveyed 
that such a figure as the Count's ought not 
to be exposed in snowtime ; " but we'll 
not keep you long, and I'll juist state the 
circumstances with convenient brevity. The 
boys of the Seminary are allowed to exercise 

' ^^^ 

Count bowed again to Bulldog, placing his 
hand upon his heart, and then leant in a 
becoming attitude against the desk, tapping 
his shining boots with his cane, and feeling 
that he had acquitted himself wiuh credit. 
" We're sorry to bring ye out on such a 

And throwing up one of the newly repaired 
windows he made an eloquent speech." 

themselves in the snowtime within 
limits. If they fight wi' neighbouring 
schools, it's a maitter of regret ; but 
if they break windows, they're liable 
to the maist extreme penalty. Now, 
I'm informed tliat some of the young 
scoundrels — and I believe the very 
laddies are in this class-room at this 
meenut " (the Sparrow made no effort to 
catch Bulldog's eye, and Howieson's atten- 
tion was entirely occupied with mathematical 
figures) — '' have committed a breach of the 
peace at Mistress Jamieson's house. What 
I ask you, sir, to do" — and Bulldog regarded 



the Count with increasing disfavour, as he 
thought of such a popinjay giving evidence 
against his laddies — " is, to look round this 
class-room and point out, so far as ye may 
be able, any boy or boys who drove a 
snowball or snowballs through the windows 
of your residence." 

During this judicial utterance the eyes of 
the Count wandered over the school with 
the most provoking intelligence, and con- 
veyed even to the dullest, with a vivacity of 
countenance of which Muirtown was not 
capable, that Bulldog was a tiresome old 
gentleman, that the boys were a set of sad 
dogs capable of any mischief, that some of 
them were bound to get a first-class thrash- 
ing, and, worst of all, that he, the Count, 
knew who would get it, and that he was 
about to give evidence in an instant with 
the utmost candour and elegance of manner. 
When his glance lighted on Spiug it was 
with such a cheerful and unhesitating 
recognition that the Sparrow was almost 
abashed, and knew for certain that for him, 
at least, there could be no escape ; while 
Howieson, phinging into arithmetic of his 
own accord for once, calculated rapidly what 
would be his share of the broken glass. 
Neither of them would have denied what 
he did to save himself twenty thrashings ; 
but they shared Bulldog's disgust that a 
free-born Scot should be convicted on the 
evidence of a foreigner, whom they always 
associated in his intellectual gifts and tricks 
of speech with the monkey which used to go 
round seated on the top of our solitary 

" When it is your pleasure, sir," said Bull- 
dog sternly ; and there was a silence that 
could be felt, whilst the Sparrow already saw 
himself pointed out with the Count's cane. 

The shutters went suddenly down on the 
Count's face ; he became grave and anxious, 
and changed from a man of the world, who 
had been exchanging a jest with a few gay 
Bohemians, into a witness in the Court of 

" Assuredly, monsieur, I will testify upon 
what you call my soul and conscience," and 
the Count indicated with his hand where 
both those faculties were contained. " I will 
select the bay who had the audacity, I will 
say profanity, to break the windows of my 
good friend and hostess, Madame Jamieson." 

The Count gave himself to the work of 
selection, but there was no longer a ray of 
intelligence in his face. He was confused 
and perplexed, he looked here and he looked 
there, he made little impatient gestures, he 

said a bad French word, he flung up a hand 
in despair, he turned to Bulldog with a 
frantic gesture, as of a man who thought he 
could have done something at once, and 
found he could not do it at all. Once 
more he faced the school, and then Sparrow, 
with that instinct of acute observation which 
belongs to a savage, began to understand, 
and gave Howieson a suggestive kick. 

"As a man of honour," said the Count 
with much solemnity, " I give my testimony 
and I declare that I do not see one of the 
boys who did forget themselves yesterday 
and did offer the insult of an assault to 
Madame's domicile." 

And it would have been curious if he had 
se3n the boys, for the Count was looking 
over their heads, and studying the distant 
view of the meadow and the River Tay with 
evident interest and appreciation. 

The mind of the Sparrow was now clear 
upon the Count, and Bulldog also understood, 
and in two seconds, so quick is the flash of 
sympathy through a mass of boy life, the- 
youngest laddie in the mathematical class- 
room knew that, although the Count might 
have had the misfortune to be born in 
foreign parts, and did allow himself to dress 
like a dancing-master, inside that coat, and 
the stays, too, if he had them on, there was 
the heart of a man who would not tell tales 
on any fellow, but who also liked his bit of 

" It's a peety. Count," said Bulldog, with 
poorly concealed satisfaction, " that ye're no 
in a poseetion to recognise the culprits, for 
if they're no here my conviction is they're 
not to be found in Muirtown. We can ask 
no more of you, sir, and we're muckle 
obleeged for yir attendance." 

" It is a felicitous affair," said the Count, 
" which has the fortune to introduce me to 
this charming company," and the Count 
bowed first to Bulldog and then to the 
school with such a marked indication in one 
"direction that the Sparrow almost blushed. 
" My sorrow is to be so stupid a witness ; but, 
monsieur, you will allow me to pay the penalty 
of my poor eyesight. It will be my pleasure," 
and again the Count bowed in all directions, 
'' to replace the glass in Madame's house, and 
the incident, pouf ! it is forgotten." 

There was a swift glance from all parts of 
the class-room, and permission was read in 
Bulldog's face. Next instant the mathe- 
matical class-room was rent with applause 
such as could only be given when fifty such 
lads wanted to express their feelings, and the 
Sparrow led the circus. 



" Ye will allow me to say, sir," and now 
Bulldog came as near as possible to a bow, 
" that je have acted this day as a gentleman, 
and, so far as the boys of Muirtown Seminary 
are concerned, ye're free to come and go 
among us as ye please." 

The departure of the Count, still bowing, 
with Bulldog attending him to the door and 
offering him overshoes to cover the polished 
leather boots, was a sight to behold, and the 
work done for the rest of the morning was not 
worth mentioning. 

During the lunch hour the school was 
harangued in short, pithy terms by the 
Sparrow, and in obedience to his invitation 
Muirtown Seminary proceeded in a solid 
mass to the Count's residence, where they 
gave a volley of cheers. The Count was 
more gratified than by anything that had 
happened to him since he came to Muirtown ; 
and throwing up one of the newly repaired 
windows he made an eloquent speech, in 
which he referred to Sir Walter Scott and 
Queen Mary and the Fair Maid of Perth, 
among other romantic trifles ; declared that 
the fight between the " Pennies " and the 
Seminary was worthy of the great N'apoleon ; 
pronounced the Sparrow to be tin hrave 
gargon ; expressed his regret that he could 
not receive the school in his limited apart- 
ments, but invited them to cross with him 
to Mistress McCrum's, the Seminary tuck- 
shop, where he entertained the whole set to 
Mistress McCrum's best home-made ginger- 
beer. He also desired that Mistress Jamieson 
should come forward to the window with him 
and bow to the school, while he held her 
hand — which the Count felt woald have 
been an interesting tableau. It certainly 
would have been, but Mistress Jamieson 
refused to assist in the most decided terms. 

" Me stand wi' the Count at an open 
window, hand in hand wi' him, and bowin', 
if ye please, to thae blackguard laddies ? 
Na, na ; I'm a widow o' good character and 
a member o' the Free Kirk, and it would ill 
set me to play such tricks. But I'll say this 
for the Count — he beliaved handsome ; and 
I'm judgin' the'll no be another pane o' 
glass broken in my house so long as the 
Count is in it." And thei'e never was. 

It were not possible to imagine anything 
more different than a Muirtown boy and the 
Count ; but boys judge by an instinct which 
never fails within its own range, and Muir- 
town Seminary knew that, with all his 
foreign ways, the Count was a man. 
Legends gathered around him and flourished 
exceedingly, being largely invented by Nestie 

and offered for consumption at the mouth of 
the pistol by the Sparrow, who let it be 
understood that to deny or even to smile at 
Nestie's most incredible invention would be 
a ground of personal offence. The Count 
was in turn a foreign nobleman, who had 
fallen in love with the Emperor of Austria's 
daughter and had been exiled by the imperial 
parent, but that the Princess was true to the 
Count, and that any day he might be called 
from Mistress Jamieson 's lodgings to the 
palace at Vienna ; that he was himself a 
king of some mysterious European State, 
who had been driven out by conspirators, 
but whose people were going to restore him, 
and that some day the Sparrow would be 
staying with the Count in his royal abode 
and possibly sitting beside him on the 
throne. During this romance the Sparrow 
felt it right to assume an air of demure 
modesty, which was quite consistent with 
keeping a watchful eye on any impertinent 
young rascal who might venture to jeer, 
when the Sparrow would poHtely ask him 
what he was laughing at, and offer to give 
him something to laugh for. That the Count 
was himself a conspirator, and the head 
of a secret society which extended all over 
Europe, with signs and passwords, and that 
whenever any tyrant became intolerable, the 
warrant for his death was sent from Mistress 
Jamieson's. Whenever one fable grew 
hackneyed Nestie produced another, and 
it was no longer necessary in Muirtown 
Seminary to buy Indian tales or detective 
stories, for the whole library of fiction was 
now bound up and walking about in the 

Between him and the boys there grew up 
a fast friendship, and he was never thoroughly 
happy now unless he was with his " jolly 
dogs." He attended every cricket match, 
and at last, after he had learned how, kept 
the score, giving a cheer at every new run 
and tearing his hair when any of his boys 
were bowled out. He rushed round the 
football field without his cane, and generally 
without his hat ; and high above all cheers 
could be heard his "Bravo — bravo, foivards! 
Spar-r-row ! " as that enterprising player 
cleft his way through the opponent's ranks. It 
mattered nothing to the Count that his boots 
were ruined, and his speckless clothes soiled, 
he would not have cared though he had burst 
his stays, so long as the " dogs " won and 
he could go up in glory with them to Phemie 
McCrum's and drink to their health in flow- 
ing ginger-beer. During the play hour his 
walk seemed ever to bring him to the North 

.;'m^^, * ; V- .^^^., 

r-*' y* ' 

"It was a pretty sight to see* him watching a battle royal between the tops of Sparrow and Howieson." 


Meadows, and if a ball by accident, for none 
would have done it bj intention, knocked off 
the Count's hat, he cried " Hoor-r-rah ! " in his 
own pronunciation and bowed in response to 
this mark of attention. It was a pretty 
sight to see him bending forward, his hands 
resting on his knees, watching a battle royal 
between the tops of Sparrow and Howieson ; 
and if anything could be better it was to see 
the Count trying to spin a top himself, and 
expostulating with it in unknown tongues. 
As the boys came to the school in the morn- 
ing and went home in the evening up 
Breadalbane Street, the Count was always 
sitting at one of the windows which had 
been broken, ready to wave his hand to 
anyone who saluted him, and in the afternoon 
he would often open the window to get the 
school news and to learn whether there 
would be a match on Saturday. As time 
went on this alliance told upon the Count's 
outer man ; he never lost his gay manner, 
nor his pretty little waist, nor could he ever 
have been taken for a Scot, nor ever, if he 
he had lived to the age of Methuselah, have 
been made an elder of the Kirk ; but his 

boots grew thicker, though they were always 
neat, and his clothes grew rougher, though 
they were always well made, and his ties 
became quieter, and his week-day hat was 
like that of other men, and, except on 
Sunday, Muirtown never saw the glory of 
the former days. With his new interest in 
life, everyone noticed that the Count had 
grown simpler and kindlier, and Muirtown 
folk, who used to laugh at him with a flavour 
of contempt, began to love him through 
their boys. He would walk home with 
Bulldog on a summer evening, the strangest 
pair that ever went together ; and it was 
said that many litble improvements for the 
comfort of the lads, and many little schemes 
for their happiness at Muirtown Seminary, 
were due to the Count. It was believed that 
the time did come when he could have returned 
to his own land, but that he did not go because 
he was a lonely man and had found his friends 
in Muirtown; and when he died, now many 
years ago, he left his little all for the benefit 
of his " jolly dogs," and the Count, who had 
no mourners of his blood, was followed to 
his grave by every boy at Muirtown Seminary. 


By Gambier Bolton, F.Z.S. 

Illustrated from Photographs hy the Author. 

THEEE can be but very little doubt 
that the modern Shire-horse — that 
hairy-legged, big-boned, but active 
equine giant so common in the streets of 
our cities and on our country farms — is 
descended from the old breed of English 
cart-horses. These, in their turn, were 
probably descended from a breed of heavy 

day. So long as armour was in fashion a 
large, massive animal was required to support 
the enormous weight of the steel-clad knight, 
and to withstand the ponderous attacks of a 
similar opponent. The half-bred horse was 
then unknown, and the Spanish and other 
imported horses were insufficient in size, so 
that recourse was had to the large black 

Copyright photo bi/] 

er Bolion^ F.Z.H, 


horses imported into these Islands from the 
mainland of Europe as far back as the days 
of the Norman Conquest. This point is 
emphasised by Mr. W.- 0. Spooner, who 
says : " We have reason to believe that the 
horses employed in the army of William the 
Conqueror were little better, as respects 
breeding, than the cart-horses of the present 

horse, which had been known throughout 
the fertile plains of Europe from time 
immemorial, and from which no doubt the 
greater portion of our cart-horses are 
descended ; for we find that during the 
reign of the Edwards repeated importations 
of these animals took place. And m the 
time of the Duke of Newcastle, who wrote 




a work on horses in 1667, there was in this 
countrj an estabhshed breed of cart-horses. 
The most prevaiMng colour amongst these 
animals is black — so mnch so that we 
recognise a distinct breed under the 
appellation of the * old black horse.' " 

But nowadays we constantly meet with 
bays and browns, while chestnuts, roans, 
and greys are fairly common, and even 
skewbalds and piebalds are by no means 
rare. This variety and colour is the outcome 
of many crossings. 

— Ely, strangely enough, being the city in 
which Hereward the Wake and the last of 
the English so long defied the Norman 
Conqueror. But Mr. Gilbert Murray, on 
the other hand, claims that the most perfect 
specimens of the Shire-horse to be found in 
the United Kingdom were bred within thirty 
miles of the town of Derby, and that much 
of the ancient and unalloyed blood still 
remains there. 

Possibly both statements are more or less 
correct as to the past history of this ancient 

Copyright plioto byl 

MR. Mcmullen's " iron chancellor.' 

IGamhier Bolton, F.Z.S. 

Shire-horses derive their name from the 
counties in which they are most commonly 
found — viz., Cambridge, Lincoln, Derby, 
Norfolk, Huntingdon, Bedford, Leicester, 
Cheshire, Rutland, Nottingham, and some 
parts of Northampton, Warwick and Shrop- 
shire. They have chiefly sprung, however, 
from tlie rich fen districts in the Midland 
and Eastern counties, and it was said at one 
time that "more good horses were bred 
within a radius of twenty miles of the city 
of Ely than in all the rest of the Kingdom " 

breed ; but to-day we find them rapidly 
spreading all over Great, and even Greater, 
Britain, for many wealthy landowners, like 
Lords EUesmere, Spencer, and Powis, the 
Duke of Westminster, Mr. Walter Gilbey, 
Mr. Alexander Henderson, and others, not 
to mention H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, 
have become so deeply interested in the 
breeding of these giants, that they keep not 
tens or twenties, but hundreds between 
them ; and there are few more picturesque 
sights than that of the great brood mares 



and their shapely, 
active foals, feeding 
in British pasture 
lands, whilst a visit 
to any of our agri- 
cultural exhibitions 
is well repaid by the 
sight of the monster 
stallions, decorated 
with bright- 
coloured rosettes 
on their head-stalls, 
and ribbons on their 
manes and tightly 
tied-up tails, the 
long, silky hair from 
knee to fetlock 
carefully brushed 
out with dry saw- 
dust, and their coats 
shining, in the very 
pink of condition. 

Yet, despite the 
wonderful utility of 
these animals, it is 
not so very many 
years ago since they 
were quite neglected and the breed almost 
lost to us ; for at one time they were thought 
to be too slow and heavy for town work, and 

Copyright photo by} 

Mii. A. Henderson's champion bay colt, " lu ^ 

\_Gamlner Bolton^ F.Z.S. 
1)1 HAROLD." 

CopyrigJd photo hy} {GamUer Bolton, F.Z.S. 


their clean-legged rivals, the Clydesdales and 
the old " Cleveland bays," were looked upon 
as the heavx idecils of wdiat cart-horses should 
be like. Fortunately 
pnblic taste has 
changed once more ; 
the 'clean-legged 
liorses were found to 
be nnable to stand 
the wear and tear of 
the paved streets, and 
it has been proved 
that the heavy Shire- 
horse, bred as he is 
now, with quicker 
and lighter action, is 
more suitable for 
general purposes, 
that he stands the 
stone - paved streets 
far better, and com- 
mands a much higher 
price in the market, 
as recent sales go to 

And not only have 
the people of Great 
Britain recognised 
this at last, but our 
fellow-countrymen in 
Greater Britain— 
those in Australia, 



Canada, and even Sontli Africa —have become 
large buyers of our surplus stock; and in 
Melbourne, Montreal, Toronto, Cape Town, 
and other cities they may be seen stepping 
out gaily in front of loads which three or 
four of the ordinary light horses of those 
countries could scarcely move. 

The writer well remembers a recent 
visit to the stables of one of the great 
horse-loving rajahs of India. Round 
three sides of a huge stone enclosure ran 
sheds in which stood scores of beautiful 
Arabs, many Australian "Walers," and active 
native ponies ; but the horse specially 
reserved to the last, as a lonm hoiiche for the 
English sahib, was an enormous black Shire- 
stallion, who was led forth, kicking and plung- 
ing like a colt, whilst ten to fifteen little natives 
hung on for dear life to the leading-chains, 
the perspiration rolling down their arms and 
faces, the whites of their eyes shining, in 
the most ludicrous fashion, through the 
clouds of red dust, as they clung to the 
skittish twenty-year-old monster ; and it 

remains a problem, unsolved to this day, 
how those dusky httle Hindoos could ever 
groom him properly without the help of a 
step ladder. 

A remarkable feature in the stud-book of 
the Shire-Horse Society is the length of the 
pedigrees of the best-known stallions, which, 
for the sake of brevity, may be printed as : 
"' British Wonder ' (foaled in 1875) ^.g^g. 
g. g. g. g. g. g.s Milton and Colley's brown 
stallion " — each g., excepting the last, repre- 
senting the word " great," thus giving a total 
of nine generations to this horse's pedigree, 
even in 1875, and now two or perhaps three 
more would be added to the descendants of 
" British Wonder," whose pedigree traces 
back direct to the end of the last century. 
And it is most interesting to notice the 
names that have been selected for these huge 
British horses, names so typical of the land 
of their birth as to be worth quoting, for 
we meet with " England's Glory," " Honest 
Tom," "Thumper," "Samson," "What's 
Wanted," " Heart of Oak," " Honest Lass," 

Copyright photo by'] 

{Gambler Bolton, F.Z.S. 




Copyright photo ?'//] 

mi:, gkandage's champion mare, " quep:n of the shires." 

IGamUer Bolton, F.Z.S. 

"Cast steel," "Bar None," "Spanker," 
" England's Boast," " Yorkshire Lad," " So 
Seldom Seen," and many others equally happy 
in their exact description of these giants, 
and redolent of the pastures and fen countries 
in which they were bred. " A real good 'un " 
should stand about seventeen hands, should 
be long, low, and wide in form, and, above 
all, should be a good mover at cart-horse 
pace— z^*^., walking, and if trotting should 
pick up his feet and show the action of a 
Norfolk cob. 

The Prince of Wales's '-'Whirlwind" 
(14,935) is a good specimen of the " old black 
horse" breed, and can trace his pedigree, 
through "Honest Tom," back for many 
generations, and is interesting for comparison 
with the more modern type of Shire-horse 
which our photographs show. 

One of the most picturesque of modern- 
day stallions is Mr. McMuUen's dark grey 
" Iron Chancellor " (14,677), champion at 
Anglesea, and winner of the Cup at the 
Bath and West of England Show. He 
stands seventeen hands at the shoulder, has 
good legs, enormous bone, and fine quality 
hair, whilst he is an excellent mover, and a 
typical dray-horse. Looking at his beautiful 

dapplings and white mane, one is remhided 
of the horses so beloved by Rosa Bonheur, 
and immortalised by her in her picture of 
" The Horse Fair." 

Although, of course, the mares cannot be 
expected to come near the stallions in beauty 
of appearance, massiveness, and general 
picturesqueness, yet they must not be passed 
over without notice, and in " Queen of the 
Shires" (20,686), Mr. Grandage, of Leeds, 
owns the champion mare of the show in 
London in 1897. She is a deep brown, and 
with her darker dapphngs appears to the 
uninitiated eye to be a black. She was 
three years old at the time of her great 
victory, and although, in the photograph, 
she looks staid and rather sleepy, she is 
remarkably " showy " in the ring ; and as she 
trotted round and round the huge Agri- 
cultural Hall, at Islington, on the day of her 
triumph, loud volleys of applause from the 
thousands of onlookers proclaimed how 
splendidly she moved, and how popular " the 
Queen " and her owner are amongst all lovers 
of the Shire-horse. In the " Duchess of 
York " (19,855) Mr. Grandage owns another 
splendid animal, although not equal to his 
champion ; but as he bred her himself, he is 



naturally proud of her victories ; and being 
one of the judges at our largest shows, when 
he sums her up as "a really good one," we 
may rest assured that his verdict is correct. 

On the day when " the Queen " won her 
championship for mares, Mr. Alexander 
Henderson's magnificent bay four-year-old 
stallion, "Markeaton Royal Harold" (15,225), 
was awarded the corresponding cup for the 
opposite sex ; and although even then rumours 
of a most wonderful son of his were heard, 
no one was prepared for the sensational series 
of wins that have since taken place ; and 
when the champion returned to his home 
at Buscot Park, near Farringdon, an offer, 
it is said, of no less than £5,000 was refused 
for him by his owner. 

At the great show at Islington in 1898, Mr. 
Alexander Henderson, M.P., exhibited four 
celebrated animals : his champion, " Mark- 
eaton Royal Harold," who, now five years old, 
again won first and the £20 cup for the best 
stallion in his classes ; his superb bay mare, 
" Aurea" (18,951), who, at seven years old, 
won first and the £10 cup for the best mare 
in her classes, and then the £50 Challenge 
Cup, and finally the £25 Championship Cup 
for the best mare in the show^ (beating " the 
Queen ") ; his bay filly, " Locking Loiret " 
(22,071), who took first and the £10 cup for 
the best in her classes ; and the sensational 
bay colt, " Buscot Harold " (16,576), who, at 

two years old, won first and the £20 cup for 
the best in liis classes, and was then led into 
the ring to compete against his father for the 
championship of the show. 

Few of the thousands w^ho were present 
will ever forget that memorable sight ; and 
as the judges sent first one, and then the 
other, walking and trotting round the huge 
ring, the spectators broke into thunders of 
applause, in which the Prince of Wales joined 
most heartily. Mr. Henderson's face was a 
study in itself, for although both were his 
property, the colt was bred by him, whilst 
his sire was bred by Mr. John Smith, of 
Ashbourne, and, perhaps somewhat naturally, 
he favoured the youngster ; and as the 
judges hesitated, and made fresh examina- 
tions of both, and then compared notes with 
each other, one could see the anxiety of the 
fortunate owner plainly written on his face. 
But when the red, white, and blue rosette 
was handed to the groom who held " Buscot 
Harold," and the great building swelled with 
roars of applause, his suspense was at an 
end ; and, after first receiving the hearty 
congratulations of the Prince, and then both 
the championship cups and the two challenge 
cups, he left the ring the proud holder of a 
most wonderful " record," which it is more 
than probable will never again be repeated 
by any one person in the annals of Shire- 
horse history. 

Copyright photo by} 


ambier Bolton, F.Z.S. 

THE huge mass of metal here labelled 
" A Century's Hard Cash " represents 
the gold, silver and bronze (including 
copper) moneys of this Eealm which have 
been coined during the hundred years 
1800-1899. It is a great cube, that measures 
more than 38 ft. each way, and it includes 
only those coins which have been made for 
use in these Islands — not the miscellaneous 
coins made in the Royal Mint for use in 
India and other countries. 

At the top is a slab of solid gold over 
3^ ft. thick ; then comes a slab of silver 
nearly 12| ft. thick, and the bronze base is 
nearly 22 J ft. thick — a total height of nearly 
38^ ft., which is also, of course, the measure- 
ment of the other sides of this great cube of 
British bullion. 

The weight of this huge mass is just 
under 16,000 tons, or equal to the weight of 
320 large express railway locomotives. The 
value is almost 385 millions sterling, or equal 
to sixty per cent, of the present amount of 
the National Debt. The number of coins 
that were made from this mass of metal was 
the astounding total of 2,439 millions (nearly), 
or almost sufficient to give two British coins 
to every man, woman and child now living 
i^ che whole world. 

In order to obtain the results just briefly 

CopA-right. 1900, by John Holt Schooling, in the 
United States of America. 

set down I had to examine the official records 
of the coinage during the century, and it 
was specially interesting to look at the 
accounts for the period 1800-1815. England 
was hard up, the great French war was 
draining the country of men and money, 
and the silver coinage was suspended, only 
a trifle of small silver moneys, under the 
denominational value of a sixpence, being 
coined during those years, the value of 
which was only £1,187 for the whole sixteen 
years. The coinage "of gold was also reduced 
to the lowest limit — less than five millions' 
worth of gold coin was made during those 
sixteen lean years ; no copper money was made 
at the Mint, but some was made by Mr. 
Boulton, at Birmingham. The average yearly 
value of the coinage during 1800-1815 was 
only £292,038, as compared with an average 
yearly value during 1816-1899 of £4,527,544, 
nearly sixteen times as large an output yearly. 
The average yearly value of coinage during 
the last ten years has been about 7^ millions 
sterling. The account from w^hich I got 
these early records is dated 14th June, 1816 
— one year later than the battle of Waterloo, 
when the French war came to a close — and 
then, it seems, we began to look around and 
take stock of things which had been inter- 
rupted by the great war, including the 
accounts of the coinage. 

The Summary Table No. 1 shows to us, 





NUMBER made. 


Gold Coins. 

Fi\'e-Pound Piece 

Two-Pound Piece 

Guinea . . . 

















Sovereign . . 



Seven-Shilliog Piece ........ 

Total Gold Coins 


Silver Coins. 
























Four-Shilling Piece . 


Florin . 







Penny . . 

Total Silver Coins 



Copper and Bronze Coins. 





Total Copper and Bronze Coins 












All Coins 




TO 31ST DECEMBER, 1899. 



for each denomi nation of 
coin made during 1800- 
1899, the number of each 
coin made and the face- 

Five-pound gold pieces 
were first coined in 1887, 
on the occasion of the 
Queen's Jubilee, but I find 
double sovereigns — or two- 
pound pieces — as far back 
as the year 1823. The third 
gold coin on our list —the 
guinea (so called, bj the 
way, because it was first 
made of gold brought from 
Guinea, on the West Coast 
of Africa) — has been coined 
once, and only once, during 
the century ^ — viz., in 1818, 
in which year the half- 
guinea and the third-guinea, 
a seven-shilling gold piece, 
were also coined for the last 

The sovereign first comes 
on this century's list in 
1817, although gold coins 
called sovereigns were made 
as far back as Henry YII.'s 
reign. They were issued 
up to the time of James I., 
and then the sovereign fell 
out of the coinage list until 
George III. issued it in 
1817. The half-sovereign 
was also issued in 1817 for 
the first time in the nine- 
teenth century. 

Of the denominations of 
the silver coin in this 
summary - table, the Mint 
now makes only crowns, 
half - crowns, florins, shil- 
lings, sixpences, threepences, 
and silver Maundy money 
from one penny to four- 

The copper half -farthings, 
of which £8,562 worth were 
made during 1800-1899, 
were first coined in 1843. 

The vast total of this 
summary of the century's 
coinage — £384,986,357 — 
may be better understood if 
I say that at three per cent, 
interest this amount of 
money would yield a per- 





petual income of very nearly one million ster- 
ling per calendar month. Its value is also 
given by the statement illustrated in No. 2 — 
viz., that the value of the coinage during 
1800-1899 has been (approximately) at the 
average rate of half-a-crown's worth of money 
coined for every second of time throughout 
the century, day and night, without cessation. 

It is interesting to learn from No. 1 the 
degree of popularity of the coins, for these 
are made to supply the demand for them, 
and people get from the Mint the coins 
that they ask for. We of the nineteenth 
century have asked for pennies, and have 
got them. 

No. 8 illustrates the race for popularity 
during the century between the ten leading 
coins, which, as No. 1 shows, are : — 























Shilling . 








Minions of each 

coin made 
during 1800-1899 





The ten leading coins 
The twelve other coins 


All coins made during 1800-1899 2,439 

A CMfURY'S itAkb OAStt. 


There is, as Table 1 shows, a big drop 
between the half-crown, which is the last of 
the ten most popular coins, and the four- 
pence, which is the leading coin of the 
twelve miscellaneous coins that have not 
been sufficiently popular to win a place in 
our first ten. This drop is from 86 millions 
of half-crowns to only 20 or 21 millions of 
fourpences, and the other coins tail off 
quickly until we reach the despised five-pound 
piece, which comes last on our list of twenty- 
two coins with the poor total of 78,360 
made ; people don't want five-pound-pieces — • 
they prefer pennies — and so the Mint has 
made but a few of these handsome gold 

The universal penny is an easy winner. 

He wins by a margin of nearly 80 millions 
as compared with the halfpenny, who runs 
into the second place. The shiUing comes 
third, followed by the sovereign, who in 
point of actual value, but not of number, 
takes the first place (see Table 1), where the 
sovereign leads the value list with a fine 
total of over 273 millions sterling. 

Then, in No. 3, the sixpence and the far- 
thing sprint gamely round the bend, and 
each secures an honourable place — fifth and 
sixth respectively. The four other coins 
lag in the race, and the heavy old half-crown 
has, as we see in No. 3, ceased to persevere, 
seeing the lead that all the other competitors 
have obtained. The half-crown is a nice, 
genial, tipping, Christmas-boxy old boy, and 







lam glad lie gets a place in the ten most 
popular coins of the century— but he's 
pretty nearly done up by his effort. 

The metal that has been coined into the 
stupendous amount of money made by the 
Mint during 1800-1899 would suffice to 
make a square-sided rod as long as the polar 
diameter of the earth, 7,899 miles, and this 
rod would be nearly half an inch thick. 
I've left the end of the rod sticking out 
from No. 4, and the end you there see is of 
the actual size that this rod would be. It 
would, as I say, be long enough to extend 
right through the earth from the South 
Pole to the North Pole. This is not a bad 
record of work for the Royal Mint, when 
one considers that each of the 2,4:39 millions 

of coins whose metal is contained in this 
7,899 mile rod has been separately made 
and most carefully tested and examined 
before it has been passed as a true coin of 
the Realm. 

With this vast amount of money facing 
one, one feels inclined to ask, " What is my 
share of it ? Where do I come in ? " On 
examination, my present share of the 
century's hard cash is, as I find by turning 
out my pockets, only £7 95. S^'/., and this 
does not seem enough. 

Taking the present population of the 
United Kingdom at forty millions, and 
dividing the total face-value of the coins 
made during 1800-1899 (see Table 1) among 
this population, the average share for each 




one of us works out to £9 1 2s. 6d. apiece. 
[I thought my share was too small.] 

The ten leading coins of the century, 
shown in No. 8, make up nearly the whole of 
this individual share of £9 12,s\ Qd., which, 
as No. 5 shows, is composed as follows : — 

This is Your Share of Ihe Coinage during 

Two Half-Crowns 
Twelve Pennies. 
Two Florins 
Ten Halfpennies 
Eight Shillings . 
Seven Sovereigns 
Six Farthings . 
Six Sixpences 
Three Half-Sovereigns 
Three Threepences 

Your share of other coins, 
wdiich are not among the 
ten leading coins of the 
century, is . 

I hope you have your share. 








9 12 






£9 12 6 

Finally, it is interesting and suggestive to 
compare the coinage per head of population 
in 1800, in 1850, and at the present time. 
Here are the facts : — 

Yearly Coinage 

Value of per Head of 

Coinage. Population. Population. 

£ £ s. d. 

In 1800 . 190,028 15 millions 3 
In 1850 . 1,621,381 27* „ 12 
Now . . 7,500,000 40 "^ „ 3 9 

This little statement tells us that the great 
increase of population since 1800 and since 
1850 has been quite outpaced by the 
increase in the yearly amount of coinage per 
head of population. The present amount of 
yearly coinage per head of population is 
fifteen times as great as it was in 1800, and 
more than three times as great as in 1850. 
This is a sign of material prosperity that 
should not escape notice when the events of 
the nineteenth century are being reviewed. 

One does not wish to attach undue im- 
portance to this remarkable increase in the 
amount of hard cash, for there are many 
things other than mere money that are of 
more value to a community as a sign of 
progress ; but, despite this reservation, such 
an increase as is here shown must be regarded 
as distinctly satisfactory. 


By L. G. Moberly. 

Do you remember still 
The sunny sweetness of that April day, 
The purpling hazel copse,— the larks' clear 

Do vou remember still ? 

Have you forgotten yet 
The robin's song, borne on the autumn 

breeze, — 
September's golden touch upon the trees ? — 

Have you forgotten yet ? 

Might it not ever be 
That some to-morrow, — in the far away, — 
Should bring again the joy of yesterday ? — 

Might it not ever be ? 

By Octave Thanet."' 
Illustrated by John Da Costa. 

THE flies and the sun ! The sun and 
the flies ! The two tents of the 
division ward in the hospital had 
been pitched end to end, thus turning them 
into one. The sun filtered through the 
cracks of the canvas ; it poured in a broad, 
dancing, shifting column of gold through 
the open tent flap. The air was hot— not 
an endurable, dry heat, but a moist, sticky 
heat which drew an intolerable mist from 
the water standing in pools beneath the 
plank flooring of the tents. The flies had 
no barrier, and they entered in noisome 
companies, to swarm, heavily buzzing, about 
the medicine spoons and the tumblers, and 
crawl over the nostrils and mouths of the 
typhoid patients, too weak and stupid to 
brush them away. The otlie'r sick men 
would lift their feeble skeletons of hands 
against them, and a tall soldier who walked 
between the cots, and was the sole nurse on 
duty, waved his palm-leaf fan at them and 
swore softly under his breath. 

There were ten serious cases in the ward. 
The soldier was a raw man detailed only tlie 
day before, and not used to nursing, being 
a blacksmith in civil life. An overworked 
surgeon had instructed him in the use of a 
thermometer, but he was much more confident 
of the success of his lesson than the instructed 

There was one case in particular bothered 
the nurse : he returned to the cot where this 

* Copyright, 1899, by Octave Thanet, in the Unite<l 
States of America. 

case lay more than once, and eyed the gaunt 
figure which lay so quietly under the sheet 
with a dejected attention. Once he laid his 
hand shyly on the sick man's forehead, and 
when he took it away he strangled a 
desperate sort of a sigh. Then he walked 
to the end of the tent and stared dismally 
down the camp street, flooded with sunshine. 

" Well, thank God, there's Spruce ! " 
said he. 

A man in a canvas uniform, carrying a 
bale of mosquito netting, was walking 
smartly through the glare. He stopped at 
the tent. 

" How goes it ? " said he cheerfully, but 
in the lowest of tones. He w^as a short man 
and thin, but with a good colour under his 
tan, and teeth gleaming at his smile, white 
as milk. 

" Why, I'm kinder worried 'bout 
Maxwell " 

Before he could finish his sentence Spruce 
was at Maxwell's cot. His face changed. 

"Git the hot-water bottle quick's you 
can ! " he muttered, " and git the screen — 
the one I made ! " As he spoke he was 
dropping brandy into the corners of Maxwell's 
mouth. The brandy trickled down the 

" He looks awful quiet, don't he ? " 
whispered the nurse, with an awestruck 

" You git them things ! " said Spruce ; 
and he sent a single flash of his eyes after 
I lis words, whereat the soldier shuffled 
awkwardly out of the tent, returning first 




"A tall soldier on duty waved his palm-leaf fan at them.' 

with the screen and last with the bottles. 
Then he watched Spruce's rapid and silent 
movements. At last he ventured to breathe. 

" Say, he ain't — he ain't— he ain't ? " 

Spruce nodded. The other turned a kind 
of groan into a cough and wiped his face. 
Awkwardly he helped Spruce wherever there 
was the chance for a hand, and in a little 
while his bungling agitation reached the 
w^orker, who straightened up and turned a 
grim face on him. 

" Was it me ? " he whispered then. "For 
God's sake, Spruce ! I did everything* the 
doctor told me, nigh's I could remember. I 
didn't disturb him, 'cause he 'peared to be 
asleep. I — I never saw a man die before ! " 

" It ain't no fault of yours," said Spruce, 
in the same low w^hisper. "I'm sorry for 
you. Did you give him the ice I got ? " 

" Yes, I did, sergeant." 

"And was there enough for Green and 
Dick Dan vers ? " 



" Yes ; I kept it rolled up in flannel and 
newspapers. Say, I got a little more, 

" How ? " 

'' The doctors or some fellers had a tub of 
lemonade outside, a little bit further down. 
I chipped off a bit." 

Spruce ground his teeth ; but he made no 
comment. All he said was, "You go git 
Captain Hale and report. Tell the captain 
I got his folk's address. They'll want him 
sent home. They're rich folk and they 
were coming on. Guess they're on the way 
now. Be quiet ! " 

The soldier was looking at the placid face. 
A sob choked him. 

" He said ' Thank you ' every time I gave 
him anything," he gulped. " God ! it's 
murder to put fools like me at nursing, and 
the country full of women that know how 
and want to come ! " 

" S-s-s ! 'Tain't no good talking. You 
done your best. Go and report." 

As the wretched soldier lumbered off, 
Spruce set his teeth on an ugly oath. 

"I ought to have stayed, maybe," he 
thought, " but I've been doing with so little 
sleep my head was feeling dirty queer ; and 
the doctor sent me. Collapse, of course. 
Temperature ran down to normal, and poor 
Tooley didn't notice, and him too weak to 
talk ! Well, I hope I git the G boys through, 
that's all I ask !" 

He went over to the next cot, where lay 
the nearest of the G boys, greeting hi in 

" Hello, Dick !" 

Dick was a handsome young spectre just 
beginning to turn the corner in a bad case 
of typhoid fever. His blue eyes lighted at 
Spruce's voice, and he sent a smile back at 
Spruce's smile. 

" Did you get some sleep ?" said he. 
" What's that you have in your hand ?" 

" That's milk ; real milk from a cow. 
Yes, lots of sleep. You drink that." 

The sick man drank it with an expression 
of pleasure. 

"I don't believe any of the others get 
milk," he murmured ; " save the rest for 

" Edgar don't need it, Dick," Spruce 
answered gently. 

Dick drew a long, shivering sigh, and his 
eyes w^andered to the screen. 

" He was a soldier, and he died for his 
country, jest the same as if he was hit by a 
Mauser," said Spruce— he had taken the sick 
boy's long, thin hand, and was smoothing 

the fingers — " it's what we all got to expect 
when we enlist." 

" Of course," said Dick, smiling, " that's 
all right, for him or for me ; but he — he was 
an awfully good fellow. Oris." 

" Sure." 

Spruce made his rounds. He was the star 
nurse of the hospital. It was partly experi- 
ence. Cris Spruce had been a soldier in the 
Regulars and fought Indians, and helped the 
regimental surgeon through a bad attack of 
typhoid, which came to the fort as a con- 
sequence of too ambitious plumbing. But 
it was as much a natural gift. Cris had a 
light foot, a quick eye, a soft voice ; he was 
indomitably cheerful, and consoled the most 
querulous patient in the ward by describing 
how nuich better his lot, with no worse than 
septic pneumonia, than a man whom he 
(Spruce) had known well, who was scalped. 

Spruce had enlisted from a Western town, 
where he had happened to be at the date of 
his last discharge. He had a great opinion 
of the town. And he never tired recalling 
the scene of their departure, as amid tears 
and cheers and the throbbing music of a 
brass band, with their pockets full of cigars 
and an extra car full of luncheon boxes, and 
a thousand dollars company spending-money 
to their credit. 

" A. man, he comes up to me," says Spruce, 
" a big man in the town, rich and all that. 
He says, calling me by name— I don't know- 
how he ever got my name, but he had it — 
he says, 'I'm told you've been with the 
Regulars. Look after the boys a little,' says 
he. ' That I will,' says I. ' I've been six years 
in the service and I know of a few wTinkles.' 
I do, too. He gave me a five-dollar bill, 
after he'd talked a while to me, and one of 
his own cigars. ' Remember the Town's 
back of you ! ' says he. 'Tis, too. I'd a 
letter from the Committee they got there, 
asking if we had everything, offering to pay 
for nurses if they'd be allowed. Oh, it's a 
bully town !" 

Spruce himself had never known the 
sweets of local pride. He had drifted about 
in the world until at twenty he drifted into 
the Regular Army. He had no kindred 
except a brother, whose career was so little 
creditable that Spruce was relieved when it 
ended,, were the truth known, in a peniten- 
tiary. He had an aunt of whom he often 
spoke, and whom he esteemed a credit to the 
family. She was a widow woman in an Iowa 
village, who kept a boarding-house for rail- 
way men, and had reared a large family, not 
one of whom (Spruce was accustomed to 



explain in moments of expansion, on pay day 
when his heart had been warmed with good 
red hquor) had ever been to jail. Spruce 
had never seen his estimable relative, but he 
felt on terms of intimacy with her, because 
occasionally on these same pay days he would 
mail her a'five-dollar bank note, the receipt 
of which was always promptly acknowledged 
by an educated niece, who could spell most 
of her words correctly and who always 
thanked him for his "kind and welcome 
gift," told him what they proposed to do 
with the money, and invited him to come to 
see them. 

He always meant to go, although he never 
did go. It was his favourite air castle, being 
able to go on furlough to the village where 
his aunt lived and show his medal. He had 
won the medal in an Indian fight, where he 
had rescued his captain. The captain died 
of his wounds ; and Spruce never got drunk 
(which I regret to confess he did oftener 
than was good for either his soul or the 
service) that he didn't talk about his captain, 
who had been his hero, and cry over him. 
Spruce, who was a cheery creature in his 
normal state, always developed sentiment and 
pathos when he was revealed by liquor. 

Now, he had another day dream. It was 
to be greeted by the cheering crowds. Again 
he would march down the sunny streets, 
with the band playing, and the faces, and the 
shouts. And the men who had stood by the 
company so staunchly would be pointing 
him out and telling each other his mythical 
exploits, and adding the record of his Indian 
exploits, which Spruce felt that an inattentive 
country had not appreciated. A dozen times 
a day he pictured the scene, he mentally 
listened to the talk, he walking with a rigid 
and unseeing military mien. He approxi- 
mated the number of glasses a man could 
take without grazing indecorum — for he was 
determined he would not be riotous in his 
joy^ — ^and he used to whistle the refrain of a 
convivial song — 

" Enj'y yourselves, enj'y yourselves 
But don't do no disgrace ! " 

Meanwhile his consciousness of in some 
way caring for the whole company held him 
a model of sobriety. In fact, he did take 
care of the company, secretly instructing the 
captain on the delicacies of military etiquette 
and primitive sanitary conditions, and openly 
showing the commissary sergeant how to 
make requisitions and barter his superfluities 
of rations for acceptable canned goods at the 
groceries of the town. He explained all the 

Eegulars' artless devices of being comfortable, 
he mended the boys' morals and their blouses 
in the sam3 breath, and he inculcated all the 
Regulars' traditions and superstitions. 

But it is to be confessed, again, that while 
Spruce was living laboriously up to his lights 
of righteousness, under this new stimulus, 
the lights were rather dim ; and in particular, 
as regards the duty of a man to pick up 
outlying portable property for his company, 
they would have shocked a police magistrate. 
Neither did he rank among the martial 
virtues the ornament of a meek and quiet 

" A good captain is always a kicker," said 
Spruce firmly ; " he's got to be. Look at 
this here camp, captain ; the mess tent's all 
under water, we're standing in the slush 
every meal we eat. Water's under our tent, 
water " 

"I know, I know, sergeant," interrupted 
the perplexed and worried young captain, a 
clever young dandy, bright enough to be 
willing to take wisdom in any clothes ; " I've 
been to the colonel ; he agrees with me, and 
he's been to Major Green, and that's all that 
comes of it. I don't see what I can do 
further ; if I did " 

" Begging your pardon, captain, the men 
will be falling sick soon, and dying. They're 
weakened by the climate and being fretted, 
expecting always to git off and never going." 

" But what can I do ? Oh, speak out, 
we're off here, alone ! Have you any idea ? " 

" Well, sir, if you was my captain in the 
old — th you'd say to the colonel, ' Colonel, 
I've remonstrated, now I'm desperate. I'm 
desperate,' says you. 'If there ain't some- 
thing done to-morrow I'm going to march 
my company out and find a new camp ; and 
you can court-martial me if you please ; I'd 
rather stand a court-martial than see my 
men die ! ' He'd talk real pleasant at first, 
and so to git in all his facts, and then he'd 
blaze away. And he'd do it, too, if they 
didn't listen." 

The captain gave the sergeant a keen 
glance. "And that's your notion of dis- 
cipline ? " said he. 

"There's a newspaper fellow asking for 
you, captain, this morning ; I see him 
a-coming now," was the sergeant's Orphic 
response ; " but," he chuckled, walking stiffly 
away, " he'll do it ; I bet we won't be here 
two days longer." For which glee there was 
reason, since inside the hour the captain 
was in the colonel's tent concluding an 
eloquent picture of his company's discomfort 
with, " Somebody has to do something. If 

" An Indian fight, where he had rescued his captain." 



you are powerless, colonel, I'm not. If they 
don't give some assurance of changing the 
camp to-morrow I shall march Company G 
out and pitch a camp myself, and stand a 
court-martial. I would rather risk a court- 
martial than see my men die ; and that's 
what it has come to ! " 

The colonel looked the fiery young speaker 
sternly in the eye and said something about 
unsoldierly conduct. 

" It would be unmanly conduct for me to 
let the boys trusted to me die because I was 
afraid to speak out," flung back the captain ; 
"and I know one thing, if I am court- 
martialled the papers are likely to get the 
true story." 

"You mean the reporter on the Chicago 
papers who is snooping around ? Let me 
advise you to give him a wide berth." 

" I mean nothing of the kind, sir. I only 
mean that the thing will not be done in a 

" Well, well, keep cool, captain ; you're 
too good a fellow to fling yourself away. 
Wait and see if I can't get something defi- 
nite out of the major to-day." 

Whereupon the captain departed with 
outward decent gloom and inward premoni- 
tions of rejoicing, for when he had hit a 
nail on the head he had eyes to see. And 
the colonel betook himself, hot foot, to the 
pompous soldier in charge of the camp, who 
happened to be a man of fixed belief in 
himself, but, if he feared anything, was 
afraid of a newspaper reporter. The colonel 
gave him the facts, sparing no squalid detail, 
indeed adding a few picturesque embellish- 
ments from his own observation. He cut 
short the other's contemptuous criticism of 
boy soldiers, and his comparison with the 
hardships endured during the Civil War with 
a curt " I know they fooled away men's lives 
then ; that is no reason why we should fool 
them away now. The men are sickening 
to-day, they will be dying to-morrow. I'm 
desperate. If that camp is not changed 
to-morrow, I shall march my regiment out 
myself and pitch my own camp. You court- 
martial me for it if you like. I would rather 
stand a court-martial, I would rather be shot 
by it, than see my men die because I was 
afraid to speak out ! This camp we have 
now is murder, as the reporters say. I don't 
wonder that young fellow from Chicago 
talks hard." 

" You're excited, colonel ; you forget 
yourself ! " 

" I am desperate, major; I'm desperate. 
Will you walk round the camp with me ? " 

The end of the colloquy was that the 
captain saw the major and the colonel, and 
told the first lieutenant, who told the first 
sergeant, whose name was Spruce. 

" Captain's kicked to the colonel, I guess," 
says Spruce, "and colonel's kicked to the 
major. That's the talk. Git ready, boys, 
and pack." 

True enough the camp was moved the 
very next day. "I guess captain will make 
an officer if he fives and don't git the big 
head," Spruce moralised ; " it's mighty pre- 
valent in the Volunteers." 

The captain wrote the whole account 
home to one single confidant—his father — 
and him he swore to secrecy. The captain's 
father was the man who had committed 
Company G to Spruce's good offices. He sent 
a cheque to the company and a special box of 
cigars for Spruce. And Spruce, knowing 
nothing of the intermediary, felt a more 
brilliant pride in his adopted town, and 
bragged of its virtues more vehemently than 
ever. The camp was not moved soon 
enough. Pneumonia and typhoid fever 
appeared. One by one the boys of the 
regiment sickened, presently one by one 
began to die. 

Then Spruce suggested to the captain, " I 
guess I'd be more good in the hospital than 
I am here, captain," and the captain, who 
was scared, poor lad, and had visions of the 
boys' mothers demanding the wasted lives of 
their sons at his hands, had his best sergeant 
put on the sick detail. 

If Spruce had been useful in camp he was 
invaluable in hospital. The head surgeon 
leaned on him with a jest, and the young 
surgeon in charge with a pretence of abuse. 
"You'll burst if you don't work oflp your 
steam, Spruce, so out with it! What is it 
now ? " In this fashion he really sought 
both information and suggestion. Nor was 
he above being instructed in the innumer- 
able delicacies of requisitions by the old 
Regular, and he did not, when requisitions 
were unanswered and supplies appeared in 
unusual form, ask any embarrassing ques- 
tions. " I get 'em from the Red Cross, sir," 
was Spruce's invariable and unquestioned 

And the doctor in his reports accounted 
for what he had received, and complained 
lustily because his requisitions were not 
honoured, even as Spruce had desired. And 
thereby he obtained much credit in the days 
to come. Spruce did not obtain any parti- 
cular credit, but he saved a few lives it is 
likely ; and the sick men found him better 



than medicine. The captain always handed 
the Committee letters over to him, and 
bought whatever he desired. 

"Captain's going to distinguish himself. 
Give him a chance," thought Spruce ; " he's 
got sense ! " 

And by degrees he began to feel for the 
young Volunteer a reflection of the worship 
which had secretly been offered to a certain 
fat, little, bald-headed captain of the old 
— th. His picture of the great day when 
he should have his triumph quite as dear to 
him, perhaps, as any Roman general's to the 
Roman, now always included a vision of the 

was, but had the captain write to his married 
sister in the same town, but not in the same 
house. She in sore perplexity wrote to both 
the captain and Spruce, and kept her trunk 
packed expecting a telegram. 

Dan vers used to talk of her and of his 
mother, and of his little nephews and nieces 
to Spruce, at first in mere broken sentences — 
this was when he was so ill they expected that 
he might die any day — later in little happy 
snatches of reminiscence. He was perfectly 
aware that he owed his life to Spruce's 
nursing, and he gave Spruce the same 
admiration which he used to give the 

"Visions of the boys' mothers demanditig the wasted lives of their sons at his hands." 

captain, slender and straight and bright-eyed, 
at the head of the line ; and he always could 
see the captain, later in the day, presenting 
him to his father : " Here's Sergeant Spruce, 
who has coached us all ! " He had over- 
heard those very words once said to a girl 
visiting the camp, and they clung to his 
memory with the persistent sweetness of the 
odour of violets. 

To-day he was thinking much more of the 
captain than of young Danvers, although 
Danvers ranked next in his good-will. 
Danvers was a college lad who had begged 
and blustered his mother into letting him 
go. He would not let her know how ill he 

great man who commanded the University 
football team. The social hiatus between 
them closed up insensibly, as it always does 
between men who are in danger and suffering 
together. Danvers knew Spruce's footfall, 
his thin face would lighten with a smile 
whenever the sergeant came in sight. He 
liked the strong, soft touch of his hand, the 
soothing cadence of his voice ; he felt a 
gratitude which he was too boyish to express 
for the comfort of Spruce's baths and rubbings 
and cheerfulness. The other sick lads had 
a touch of the same feeling for the sergeant. 
As he passed from cot to cot, even the sickest 
man could make some little sign of relief at 



his return. Spruce's heart, a simple and 
tender affair, as a soldier's is oftener than 
people know, swelled within him, not for the 
first time. 

"Well, I guess I done right to come 
here," thought he, " and I guess all the G 
bojs will be out of the woods this week, and 
then I don't care how soon we git our 

Danvei-s stopped 
him when he re- 
turned. "I want 
to speak to you, 
Oris," he said ; and 
a new note in his 
voice turned Spruce 
about abruptly. 

"What's the 
matter, Dick ? " 

" Oh, nothing ; 
I only wanted to 
be sure you'd come 
back and say good- 
bye before you got 
off. The regiment's 
got its orders, you 
know ? " 

"No!" cried 
Spruce. Ke swal- 
lowed a little gasp. 
"What are you 
giving me ? " 

"Oh, it's straight. 
I heard them talk- 
ing. Colonel has 
the order, the boys 
are packing to- 

Spruce's eyes 
burned ; he was 
minded to make 
some exclamation 
of profane joy, but 
his mood fell at the 
sight of the boy's 
quivering smile. 

"Great, isn't it?" 
said Dan vers. "I 

wish they'd waited two weeks and given us 
fellows a show ; but I dare say there 
wouldn't be any show by that time, the way 
they are after the dons at Santiago. Can't 
you get off now, to pack ? But — you'll be 
sure to come back and say good-bye, Cris ? " 

" I ain't off yet," said Spruce, " and I ain't 
too sure I will be. They're always gitting 
orders and making an everlasting hustle to 
pack up, and then unpacking. You go to 

He was about to move away, but Dan vers 
detained him, saying that he wanted to be 
turned, and as the soldier gently turned him, 
the boy got one of his hands and gave it a 
squeeze. He tried to say something, but 
was barely able to giYQ Spruce a foolish 
smile. "Spruce, you're a soldier and a 
gentleman ! " he stammered. He turned 

He was conscious that they gazed after him curiously." 

away his head to hide the tears in liis eyes. 
But Spruce had seen them. Of course he 
made no sign, stepping away briskly, with a 
little pat on the lean shoulder. 

He came back softly, in a little while. He 
looked at Danvers, who was simulating sleep 
with his dark lashes fallen over red eyelids, 
and he shook his head. During his absence 
he found that the orders were no rumour. 
The regiment was going to Porto Eico, sure 
enough. Spruce stood a moment before he 



sat down by Danvers's side. But lie barely 
was seated ere he w^as on his feet again, in a 
nervous irritation which none had ever seen 
in Spruce. He walked to the door of the 
tent and gazed in the same attitude that the 
nurse had gazed, an hour earlier, at the low 
white streets. Two great buzzards were 
flying low against the hot, cloudless vault of 

" Them boys'U be all broke up if I go !" 
said Spruce. 

He frowned and fidgeted. In fact, he 
displayed every symptom of a man strug- 
gling with a fit of furious temper. What 
really was buffeting Spruce's soul was not, 
however, anger, it was the temptation of his 

Spruce had known few temptations — at 
least, he had recognised few. His morality 
was the lenient, rough-hewn article which 
satisfies a soldier's conscience. He had no 
squeamishness about the sins outside his 
limited category ; he fell into them blithely 
and had no remorse when he remembered 
them, wherefore he preserved a certain incon- 
gruous innocence even in his vices, as has 
happened to many a man before. It is 
perhaps the moral nature's own defence, and 
keeps untouched and ever fresh little nooks 
and corners of a sinner's soul, into which the 
conscience may retreat and from which 
sometimes she sallies forth to conquer the 
abandoned territory. What Spruce called 
his duty he had done quite as a matter of 
course. He had not wavered any more than 
he wavered when the war bonnets were 
swooping down on his old captain's crumpled 
up form. But this — this was different. 
The boys needed him. But if he. had stayed 
with the boys, there was the regiment and 
the company and the captain and the chance 
to distinguish himself and march back in 
glory to his town. 

" I guess most folks would say I'd ought 
to follow the colours," he thought ; " raw 
fellers like them, they need a steady old 
hand. Well, they've got Bates" (Bates was 
an old Regular also, of less enterprising 
genius than Spruce, but an admirable 
soldier). " I s'pose "—grudgingly—" that 
Bates would keep 'em steady. And captain 
can fight, and colonel was a West Point man, 
though he's been out of the Army ten years, 
fooling with the Millish. I guess they don't 
need me so awful bad, this week ; and these 
here boys Oh, hang it all ! " 

He walked out of the tent. There was a 
little group about a wagon at which he 
frowned and sighed. 

. "Poor Maxwell!" he said. Then he 
tossed his head and stamped his foot. 

" Oh, hang it all ! " said he again between 
his teeth. 

But his face and manner were back on 
their old level of good cheer wdien he bent 
over Danvers half an hour later. 

" Sa— y, Dick ! " 

" Yes, Oris. You've come to say good-bye ! 
Well, it's good luck to you and God bless 
you from every boy here ; and we know 
what you've done for us, and we won't forget 
it, and we'll all hurry up to get well and 
join you ! " 

Danvers's voice was steady enough now, 
and a pathetic effort at a cheer came from 
all the cots. Spruce lifted his fist and sliook 
it severely. " You shut up ! All of you. 
You'll raise your temperatures ! I ain't 
going, neither. Be quiet. It's all settled. 
I've seen captain, and he wants me to staj 
and see you boys through — all the G boys. 
Then we're all going together. I tell you to 
keep quiet." 

Dick Danvers was keeping quiet enough, 
for one ; he was wiping away the tears that 
rolled down his cheeks. The others in 
general shared his relief in greater or less 
measure, but they were too ill to think much 
about anything except themselves. In some 
way, howevei*, everyone in the tent showed 
to Spruce that he felt that a sacrifice had 
been made. 

" I know you hated it hke the devil, and 
just stayed for fear some of your precious 
chickens would come to mischief if they got 
off from under your wings, you old hen ! " 
was Dick's tribute ; " and I know why you 
went into town yesterday when the boys 
went off. It is rough. Oris, and that's the 
truth ! " 

" Oh, it's only putting off things a bit. 
Captain told me so himself," said Spruce, 
very light and airy. But his heart was sore. 
The G boys understood ; he wasn't so sure 
that all the others did understand. He 
caught his name on one gossiping group's 
lips, and was conscious that they gazed after 
him curiously. " Wonder if I'm scared, that 
I stayed home, I guess," he muttered, being 
a sensitive fellow, like all vain men. " I wish 
they'd seen the things I've been in ! 
Confound 'em ! " 

The men really were discussing his very 
Indian experiences and admiring him in 
their boyish hearts. But he was unluckily 
out of earshot. Unluckily, also, he was not 
out of earshot when a lieutenant of another 
regiment, who had had a difference about 



right of way with Spruce's captain and been 
worsted bj Spruce's knowledge of miUtary 
traditions, freed his mind about that " bump- 
tious Regular who was so keen to fight, but 
(he noticed) was hanging on to his sick 
detail now the regiment had a chance to see 
a few Spaniards." Spruce, in his properly 
buttoned uniform, his face red with the heat 
of something of the words, saluted rigorously 
and went by, not a muscle twitching. All 
the while he was thinking, "I'm glad he 
don't belong to my town ! God, if anybody 
was to write them things about me ! " 

By this time the town was not only his 
town, but he was sure that he was the figure 
in the conversation of the place. Thus his 
anxiety of mind increased daily. He kept it 
from his charges, who grew stronger all the 
week and the next, and he read such papers 
as drifted out to the camp and such shreds 
of news about the fighting with frantic 
interest. Danvers was able to sit up at the 
end of three weeks ; most of the boys were 
further along, walking about the wards or 
gone back to their regiment. 

" You get out, Oris," said Danvers. " We 
all know you're on your head with aching to 
go. We're all right, and I'm off home on 
furlough to-morrow. I'll get straightened 
out there quicker and be after you next 
week, see if I don't ! I knew you'd be 
hanging on, so I won't give you the excuse. 
My sister's coming to-morrow." 

" Eeally, Dick ? " gasped Spruce ; " and 
you — you're sure the other boys are so's I 
can leave ? " 

" Well, you know there are going to be 
some women from the Eed Cross last of the 
week — oh, by the time we are all out of it 
this will be a swell hospital, with all the 
luxuries ! Spruce, go, and don't get hurt or 
I'll murder you ! " 

Spruce giggled like a happy girl. He was 
on his way to put in his application to join 
his regiment the next day, after Dick 
• Danvers's sister had arrived, when something 
happened. He did not exactly know him- 
self, until he felt the water on his forehead 
and tried to lift himself up from the sand, 
catching the arm of the surgeon-in-chief. 
" Sunstroke, doctor ? " he whispered. 

"Just fainted," the surgeon answered 
cheerfully ; " you've been overdoing it. 
Spruce, in this heat. Be careful." 

"Oh, it's nothing, sir," Spruce grinned 
back ; " had it lots of times, only not so bad. 
All the boys git giddy heads." 

Somehow the ready words faltered off his 
tongue; the surgeon had been fumbling at 

his blouse, under the pretext of opening it 
for air ; he was looking in a queer, intent 
way at Spruce's chest. Of a sudden the eyes 
of doctor and soldier, who had been nurse, 
met and challenged each other. There was 
a dumb terror in the soldier's eyes, a grave 
pity in the surgeon's. 

" I seen them spots yesterday," said Spruce 
slowly, in a toneless voice, " but I wouldn't 
believe they were typhoid spots, nor they 
ain't ! " 

" You get inside and get a drink. Spruce, 
and go to bed," said the doctor. " Of course 
I'm not certain, but as good a nurse as you 
knows that it isn't safe to try to bluff 
typhoid fever ! " 

By this time Spruce was on his feet, able 
to salute with his reply, "That's all right, 
major ; but — I got to keep up till Danvers 
gits off with his folks, or he'd be kicking 
and want to stay. Jest let me see him oft', 
and I'll go straight to bed." 

" No walking about, mind, though," said 
the doctor, not well pleased, yet knowing 
enough of the two men to perceive the point 
of the argument. 

Spruce saw Danvers off, with a joke and a 
grin and an awkward bow for Danvers's 
sister. Then he went back to the hospital 
and went to bed, having written his aunt's 
address on a prescription pad (one of his 
acquirements in his foraging trips), with a 
remarkably spelled request that his pay be 
sent her and his other property be given his 
friend, R. E. Danvers, to divide among his 
friends, giving the captain first choice. 

"Lots of folk die of typhoid fever," he 
remarked, quite easily, "and it don't hurt 
to be ready. I feel like I was in for a bad 
time, and I ain't stuck on the nursing here a 
little bit." 

Before the week was out he recognised as 
well as the doctors that he was a very sick 

"If you'd only gone off with your regi- 
ment three weeks ago," the doctor growled 
one day, " you'd have missed this. Spruce ! " 
" That's all right," said Spruce, " but some 
of the boys are home that wouldn't be, 
maybe. I guess it's all right. Only I wish 
you'd write to the old town and tell the 
Committee I done my duty. I can't be a 
credit to the company, but I done my duty, 
though I expect there's folk in town may 
think I was malingering." 

" Stop talking ! " commanded the doctor. 
" Did you know the women are coming to- 
morrow, and you are to have a nurse of your 
own here ? " 




to talk, major ; something's broke loose in 
me and I got to talk. I don't want to, 
I just got to." 

When the nurse came he was so 

light-headed to have no control 

of his words ; yet quite able to 

recognise her and welcome 

her with an apologetic 

. politeness. 

" Fd have had some 

'■'T^ lemonade for you if Fd 

been up myself, ma'am. 

f^ We're glad to see you. 

% All the G boys are 

convalescing. Most of 

Spruce, keep 

" His hand tightened on hers." 

"Time," said Spruce. "If my 
town had had its way they'd have 
beeij here long ago. Ever been in 
my town, major ? " 

" No. Good-bye 

" It's the bulliest towm in the 
country and the prettiest. And when G 
Company goes back — oh, Lord, I won't be 
with them." 

The surgeon's hand on his shoulder pre- 
vented the movement which he would have 
made, and he apologised. " I didn't mean 
to do that ! Moving's so bad. Tell you, I'd 
a time, keeping the boys still ; they would 
. turn when they got a little off ! Say, I got 

em s gone. 

We all come 

from the same 

city. It's an 

awful pretty town. 

I got a lot of friends 

there that maybe 

don't take it in why 

I'm here 'stead of with 

my regiment, with tlie old man. I got a 

good reason. Only I can't remember it 


The captain's father stood outside the 
telegraph office, in Spruce's town. Beside 
him was the chairman of tlie Relief Com- 

" Too bad, about that Regular," said the 
chairman. "Spruce — isn't th^t his name.? 




One of the boys telegraphed he couldn't live 
through the day. Better have him brought 
here for the funeral, 1 guess ; he's been very 
faithful. Young Dan vers wanted to go 
right down to Florida ; but he had a relapse 
after he got home, and he's flat on his 

" I heard," said the captain's father. 
" I've just telegraphed, on my own responsi- 
bihty, for them to send him here. It won't 
make any difference to him, poor fellow, but 
we owe it to him. I wish we could do 
something that would help him ; but I don't 
see anything." 

" We have told them to spare no expense, 
and he's got plenty of money. No, you have 
done everything. Well, good-bye ; remember 
me to the captain ; we're all proud of him." 

The captain's father thanked him with 
rather an absent air. 

" I wish we could do something for that 
fellow," he was thinking. '' I don't suppose 

a message to him would When a 

fellow's dying, messages are nonsense. It's a 
bit of sentiment ; I don't care, I'll do it ! " 
He turned and went back into the office. 

" I am afraid tliere is not a cliance," said 
the doctor ; " too bad. He was a good 
fellow. Wei], you can give him all the 
morphine he needs. And strychnine. Though 
he's past strychnine, I fear. Morphine's the 
one chance. And that's mighty little." 

" He talked about wanting to see you," 
said the nurse. She had a sweet voice, 
plainly a lady's voice ; and her slim figure in 
the blue-striped gown and white apron had 
a lady's grace. Her face was not handsome, 
nor was it very young, but it had a touch of 
her voice's sw^eetness. The doctor found 
himself glad to look at her, and forgetting 
his patients in his interest in the nurse. 

" Oh, yes " — he roused himself — " I'll 
look round later. I suppose he is delirious." 

" Not so much that he does not recognise 

us. He talks all the time of his town, poor 
fellow ; and seems to want to liave them 
understand that he hasn't neglected his duty. 
He only once has spoken of any relations. 
It's all the town, and the captain, and Dan vers 
making it right there. And the boys going 
back. I suppose he has lived there all his 
life and " 

'•Not a bit of it Dauvers told me he 
merely enlisted from there. But they are 
making a great time over him. Telegraphed 
to have his body sent there ; and here's 
another telegram. See." 

"I'll let him see," said the nurse, taking 
it ; " may I, doctor ? " 

" Yes, but not the first part about sending 
him back. That's a little too previous." 

The nurse's touch roused Spruce. 

" Dick," he murmured, " Dick, you tell 
the folk I couldn't go with the regiment, 
you know why." 

" They know why, too. Here's a telegram 
from your captain's father, ' Tell Spruce he 
is the hero of Company O.' " 

" Bead it again." 

She read it. His hand tightened on hers. 
Her trained eyes were on his face. 

" Ain't it the— the buUiest town ? I wisli 
I'd enough money to go back ; but, you see, 
my folk got to have my pay. But I — 
wisht- " 

Her eyes, not a nurse's eyes now, but a 
woman's, sought the doctor's in a glance of 
question and appeal. He nodded. 

Her sweet voice said, " And the town has 
telegraphed that no expense must be spared 
to cure you, but if you don't recover you are 
to go back to them." 

Spruce drew a long, ecstatic sigh. " Oh, 
didn't I tell you ? Ain't it the bulliest 
town ? " 

A minute later he murmured, "Thank 
you, Dick," and, still holding the nurse's 
hand. Spruce went to seek his town. 


At the present moment, when the air is full of 
the records of brave soldiers and brave deeds, it is 
interesting to recall an amusing story of Lord 
Panmure, in connection with the Crimean war. 
Her Majesty had been presenting the medals to 
the returned heroes, and the Hon. Mrs. Norton, 
with natural feminine curiosity, was interrogating 
Lord Panmure on the subject. 

" Was the Queen much touched ? " she in- 

*' Bless my soul, no ! " replied his imperturbable 
Lordship. " She had a brass railing before her, so 
that no one could touch her." 

" But," persisted Mrs. Norton, " what I mean is, 
was she moved ? " 

" Moved?" ejaculated Lord Panmure, "why, she 
had no occasion to move." And then the lady 
gave it up in despair. 

Mrs. Vicar : Now, I want you to promise 
you'll come to church next Sunday, Mrs. Grubbins ; 
we have a beautiful new organ, and I shall want 
you to tell me what you think of it. 

Mrs. Grubbins: Oh, no! Indeed I couldn't. 
I never troublemyself with the like of they things. 
You see I ar'n't no sort of good at dancin'. 

Jones : Have you heard the news about 

Brown : No ! what is it ? 

Jones: He died this morning — quite suddenly, 
T understand. 

Brown : That's just like Smith. He was the 
most impulsive man 1 ever met ! 


The New Rector (paying his first call) : I suppose your dog is quiet, my little man? 
Son of the House ; Oh, come in ; don't be 'fraid. I'll lick him if he collars hold of you i 




He looked a hard- 
ened member of the 
begging fraternity and 
had realised that ad- 
vantages might accrue 
from proclaiming that 
a connecting link 
existed between his 
wooden leg and the 
Transvaal war. He 
bravely stumped his 
way to a sympathetic- 
looking front door and 
knocked. When it was 
opened by a brisk- 
looking woman, he be- 
gan in a professional 
whine, " If you please, 
mum, 1 lost my 
leg " 

" Well, you didn't 
lose it here," she 
promptly interpolated. 
And next moment he 
found himself gazing 
meditatively at the 
closed door. 


Customer : Is that the razor you shaved me with last time ? 

Barber : Yes, sir. 

Customer : Chloroform, please ! 

"Whatever became of that plain Jenkins 
girl ? " asked the man who had been away for a 
long time — " Maggie Jenkins, you know — the 
one with a face like a dream that makes you glad 
it wasn't so when you wake up ? " 

" Maggie Jenkins ? " replied the old friend. " Oh, 
I married her. Come in. Maggie, here's some- 
body wants to see you." 

An intelligent-look- 
ing boy walked into a 
grocer's shop the other 
day, and, reading from 
a paper, said — 

" 1 want six pounds 
of sugar at 2\d. a 

" Yes," said the shop- 
man, " that will be one 
and three halfpence." 

" Eleven pounds of 
rice at l^d. a pound." 

" One and fourpence 
ha fpenny," com- 
mented the grocer. 

" Four p junds of tea 
at Is. ?A. a pound." 
" Six and eight." 
And so he continued : 
" Five pounds of coffee at l.s. 10c?., 7 tins of milk 
at 5^c?., 4 tins of tomatoes at 6§o?., 8 tins of 
sardines at ^s. l^c?." 

The shopman made out the bill and handed it 
to the lad, saying, "Did your mother send the 
money, or does she w^ant them entered ? " 

" My mother didn't send me at all," said the 
boy, seizing hold of the bill. " It's my arithmetic 
lesson, and I had to get it done somehow." 

Sympathetic-looking Lady : But why do 
you beg ? 

Disreputable One: 'Cause I can't get no work, 
mum, and my wife's a widder with five children, 
and they looks to me for support. 

Every w^oman under thirty believes she is an 
actress, and every actress believes she is under 

'' Set a Zbicf- 

" In certain rural districts beloved of the cj'clist it has been found necessary to institute a police force mounted 

ood machines, in — ^-- ^ '-^^ ■^'-- -'-- "-- "-'- --'■ :---- ^ 1~:-^^- -^^^ --.^i.i^«« r-iAiryn- ' 

^ide daily papers. 

on good machines, in order to cope with the dangers to the community arising from scorching and reckless riding. 



A MAN went into an inn and asked for a loaf 
of bread. When this was served he said, " Now 
take this back, and give me a glass of ale instead " 
When he had drank the ale he turned to leave, 
but was called back by the landlord. 

"What is the matter?" urbanely asked the 

"Pay me for the ale," demanded the landlord. 

"But I gave you the loaf for it," replied the 

" Then pay for the loaf." 

" Not I," was the response ; " for you still have 
it." And the stranger departed on his way. 

He flew up the steps of the suburban station and 
threw himself into the last carriage as the train 
moved off. 

" Near thing, that," he gasped to the man in 
the opposite corner. " Mustn't do it too often — 
bad for the heart." 

The other allowed that it was more hygienic to 
be punctual, even if the trains weren't. 

"But that's just what surprises me," pursued 
the breathless one. " The trains are so con- 
foundedly punctual. This line, you know, has a 
bad name, and till I came out to live here, a 
couple of months ago, 1 believed every word that 
was said against it. 
Now, will you be- 
lieve me, every morn- 
ing for the past six 
weeks this train has 
been not only punc- 
tual to the minute, 
but sometimes even 
before its time." 

" You don't say 

" Yes, I do. 1 must 
really write to the 
papers about it. Now, 
this t r a i n — t h e 

9.15 " 

"I beg your par- 

"Eh? What? Isn't 
this the 9.15?" 

"No. This is the 

Intelligent Rustic 

Mrs. Gummins : Lor' a mussey me ! 


They tells me as 'ow 'Enery's boy 'as got wounded in the 

" And have you 
ever yet obtained any 
reward for merit at 
your school ? " in- 
quired the austere 

" Rather," said the 
callous grandson. 
"My teacher gives 
me a lickin' most 
every day, and says 
I merit two." 

And what part of 'im might that be ? 

There are some words in the French language 
which possess no corresponding rhyme. A young 
lady asked a poet if he could suggest a word 
rhyming with coiffe, (a lady's head-dress). " That 
is impossible, mndam ; there is none. For what 
belongs to a lady's head has neither rhyme nor 

Importunate Irishman: I s'pose you don't 
happen to have such a thing as an old pair of 
troupers handy, have yer, sir? 

Business Man : No, indeed ; I don't keep my 
wardrobe in my counting-house. 

Importunate Irishman : Well, if you'll gi' me 
yer private address, I'll make so bold as to call in 
the morning for the old pair yeVe got on. 

Customer : 1 say, waiter, this steak is terribly 

Waiter : That's true, sir ; I'm only glad it 
ain't no wuss. There's a gent over there as 'as 
got one simply broiled to a cinder. 

The Longest Reign 
World. — The deluge. 

in the History of tlie 




I f ^:i "v*. . ; '' .'■-';■ T'* '; V^lC - . 

B Serfou9 Dilemma. 

DuLciE : Poor Enid is in a terrible dilemma over her three soldier suitors. 

Maisip: : How is that V 

Dui.ciE : Because she is afraid to accept either one of them, lest the others might get promotion 

before him 




He was gazing with dreamy eyes into the 
far-on-ahead. " Ah, my darhng 1 " he murmured, 
" what matters it that sorrow and trouble must of 
necessity be lurking in the unknown future? 
While I am with you I think of nought but the 
present — the beautiful, superb })resent." 

" So do I, dearest," she replied ; " but you'll take 
me with you when you buy it, won't you ? Men 
have such queer taste in rings ! " 


Auntie : Do you like 
Tommy ? 

Tommy : I like Sunday-school best. 

Auntie: That's a good little boy. 
And why do you like Sunday-school 

Tommy : 'Cause it only comes once 
a week. 

The pencil heaved a weary sigh 

And murmured to the pen : 
I've never felt so out of sorts 

5ince--oh, I don't know when I 

The penknife treats me shamefully ; 

It cuts me in the street, 
And really is extremely sharp 

Whene'er we chance to meet. 

* • And when I broke the other day 
Beneath its bitter stroke, 
It said it didn't see the point, 
No more did I the joke I 

"With many troubles I'm depressed, 
My heart feels just like lead." 
The pen mopped up an inky tear: 
'* I weep for you," it said. 

The Cleveland Plain DeaUr. 

Zbc ©ID ©rcbarD* 

From an Etching by A. Hugh Fisher. 


By a. E. Fletcher. 

WITHIN the shadow of the tall light- 
house at the point of the narrow 
peninsula stretching out into the 
sea where the waters of the Kattegat and 
Skagerak meet, lies the quaint little township 
of Skagen, the Ultima Thule of Denmark. 
Though not so picturesque as some of the 
Danish villages which nestle amongst lovely 
lake and upland scenery further south, 

are deposits from the great clouds of light 
sand driven northward from the western 
coast before the North Sea's gales. Up to a 
time within the memory of men still living, 
all efforts to arrest the shifting of these great 
sand-drifts failed, and Skagen in times past 
was sometimes threatened with being buried 
alive by them. In a terrible visitation of 
the winds years ago the old parish church, 

y ^ 



Skagen has nevertheless a charm of its own. 
The level country round it is bounded on 
the seaboard by long ridges of sand-dunes 
whose almost snowy whiteness throws up 
sharply the colours of their environment of 
blue ocean, green meadows, and red -roofed 
cottages and farmsteads. These long tracts 
of sand-dunes bear silent witness to the 
energy and skill with which the Danes have 
contended with the forces of Nature. They 

July, 1900. 

which is said to have been built by Scottish 
fishermen who frequented the Skagen coast 
in the fifteenth century, was thus buried, 
excepting the upper part of the tower, which 
is all that can now be seen of it. The Danes, 
however, have now discovered a grass, locally 
known as " marchalm," whicli will grow upon 
the dunes, shooting down its roots to a great 
depth and thus binding the grains together. 
When the grass has grown for a certain time 
123 K 2 




the nature of the sands is so far 
firs can be made to grow 
Thousands of acres 
of barren sand have ' 
thus been converted 
into forest, and 
Denmark has en- 
larged the borders 
of her small terri- , 
torj by a policy of 
expansion by the 
spade, which com- - 
pensates her to some 
extent for her loss 
of territory by the 
sword. That parfc 
of the Skagen beach 
washed by the tides 
at the base of the 
sand-dunes is hard 
and smooth, and 
here, at low water, 
the cyclist may spin 
along for miles to 
the murmur of the 
sea, while at all 

changed that 
upon them. 

states of the tide there is here 
perfectly safe and delicious 
bathing. Our reproduction 
of Kroyer's clever picture, 
" Children Bathing," will give 
the reader an idea of wliat a 
dip in the sea means at Skagen. 
There is just a danger that 
Skagen may be spoiled by the 
excursionist, for it is now pos- 
sible to get there by railway, 
and a fine hotel in the old Norse 
style, commanding a splendid 
sea view, has just been built. 
Skagen, however, has nothing 
in common with the conven- 
tional watering-place beloved of 
the mere tripper. The Skagen 
folk rather pride themselves on 
being the butt of an old Danish 
saying that they are beyond the 
confines of civilisation. They 
are an honest, simple, and primi- 
tive people. The hotel stands 
amongst the sand-dunes in a 
rather desolate spot at consider- 
able distance from the village, 
and w^ould no doubt be voted 
a dull place by the Cockney 
holiday-maker, for whom life 
would not be worth living even 
at the seaside without the help of 
nigger minstrels, lion (jomiques, 
Aunt Sallys and merry-go-rounds. This 
new hotel, however, equally with the old 












hostelry whicli is one of the attractions of 
Skagen village, is a delightful resort for 
those who do not care to have their quietude 
broken otherwise than by the minstrelsy of 
rolling tides, the whistle of the Avinds, and 
the screech of sea-birds. I do not think, 
therefore, that, although Skagen has now been 
made accessible to the unconventional tourist, 
it is likely to lose its unique character. 

For the artist and man of letters this 
quaint seaboard parish is never likely to 

lose its charm. Not only has Nature here 
as a colourist done some of her best work, 
producing atmospheric effects of rare rich- 
ness and variety, but she has peopled the 
place with as sturdy a race of men as ever 
braved the hurricane or gave inspiration 
to bards of heroic song. We give some 
illustrations of types of this hardy race, 
descendants of the dauntless Norsemen who, 
under Hengist and Horsa, sent the expedi- 
tion to found the first Norse settlement on 





our shores. With the exception of the new 
hotel, to which I have already referred, 
Skagen has no buildings of any pretension 
to architectural beauty, but it contains one 
public monument which is both a work of 
art and an object of inspiring interest. It 
is a memorial raised by public subscription to 
Lars Kruse and his companions, the brave 
captain and crew of the Skagen lifeboat, 
that foundered in a gale on Christmas Day, 
1862. Kruse and his men on that fatal day 
put out to the rescue of the crew of the 
Daphne, a British vessel wrecked on the 
sand-reef off Skagen Point. Time after 

Hans Christian Jensen Bagh, the present 
captain of the lifeboat. I called upon him 
with a Danish friend who acted as inter- 
preter, and had a long chat with him. He 
is a tall, well-built man, with a kindly, 
weather-beaten face, and eyes finely moulded 
by long looking out on far horizons. As 
some three hundred vessels pass the lightship 
off Skagen Point every day, and as near that 
lightship there is a very dangerous reef, the 
services of the Skagen lifeboatmen are more 
often needed here than elsewhere on the 
Danish coast. Captain Bagh, who has been 
twenty-two years in command of the boat, 



time the brave fellows pulled off to the 
wreck, and succeeded in taking off the whole 
crew. On returning for the last time the 
boat capsized, and the women of Skagen 
" were weeping and wringing their hands 
for those who will never come back to the 
town." Lars Kruse is the subject of a fine 
ballad by Holger Drachmann, Denmark's 
most popular poet, a man of striking per- 
sonality, whom I had the good fortune to 
meet at the house of Herr Kroyer, when I 
was in Skagen a short time ago. Drachmann 
is also a painter of considerable merit. 
Another fine type of Jutland fishermen is 

has a splendid record, and has received 
decorations and other acknowledgments of 
his services from the governments of most 
of the maritime nations of the world. He 
was also awarded a diploma for a set of 
fishing-nets at the International Fisheries 
Exhibition held in London in 1880. The 
distinction he prizes most, however, is the 
medal of a Danish order for distinguished 
service (the Order of Dannebrog), awarded 
to him by King Christian for the rescue of 
the crew of an Enghsh brig during a gale 
of such violence that, although the crew was 
got off the wreck, it was impossible to take 




them ashore. Captain Bagh so skilfully 
managed the boat that he was able to keep 
her afloat until a passing steamer came to his 
rescue. For this service Captain Bagh and 
his men received from England a gift of one 
pound each — a rather poor acknowledgment, 
I think, of the heroic conduct of these 
Danish fishermen by a nation which prides 
itself both on its wealth and its generosity. 
Possibly the real worth of the service 
rendered by Captain Bagh and his crew on 
this occasion was not rightly represented to 
the Board of Trade. The lifeboat service is 
managed much better in Denmark than in 
England. In Denmark it is organised by 
the State, but in England it is left to 
voluntary effort. It has been charged 
against our British method that it tempts 
our brave lifeboatmen sometimes to think 
as much of saving 
cargo as saving life, [ 
as they share in [ 
the salvage of 
wrecked vessels. In \ 
Denmark the sole 
object of the Mfe- 
boat service is to ; 
save life. The 
rocket apparatus as 
well as the hfeboats 
are provided by the 
State, and the crews, 
selected from ex- 
perienced fisher- 
men, are paid a 
fixed sum per head 
each time the boats 
put out. The Ska- 
gen lifeboatmen re- 
ceive eight kroner 
for each call. When 

the boat passes over 
a submerged reef, 
known as the 
Eevler, the men 
receive twelve 
kroner each. They 
are not allowed to 
make any claim for 

Like our own de- 
lightful fishing vil- 
lage of Newlyn, on 
the Cornish coast, 
which Mr. Gotch, 
Mr. Stanhope 
' *'" Forbes, and the 
rest of the Newlyn 
brotherhood have 
made famous, Skagen and its wild surround- 
ings have given inspiration to a school of 
painters. Three of Denmark's most famous 
artists, Peter Severin Kroyer, Michael 
Peter Ancher, and his wife, have made 
Skagen their home, and other artists, not 
only from Denmark, but from Norway and 
Sweden, have chosen it from time to time as 
their headquarters. Kroyer is the most 
famous of this group, whose portraits, 
painted *by him, adorn the walls of the 
dining-room of the old village inn, where 
they were wont to meet at " the feast of 
reason and flow of soul." Kroyer is the 
son of a well-known Danish naturalist, a 
professor in the University of Copenhagen 
and author of some important scientific 
works. The painter was born in 1851 and 
received his early training at the Copenhagen 







Academy of Art, which he left in 1870. He 
was first brought into public notice by a 
picture which he exhibited in the following 
year. He continued to paint with success 
until 1878, when he decided to complete his 
studies abroad. He spent a considerable 

time in Paris, including one year in the 
studio of M. Bonnat, and afterwards studied 
in Italy and Spain. He has been awarded 
gold medals at various foreign exhibitions, 
including that of the Paris Salon and the 
International Art Exhibition at the Crystal 

j ».^Ak.^L.,^.!:.-^. 




Palace in 1882. Krojer is now generally 
regarded as the head of the new school of 
Danish Painters — that is to saj, the school 
which has broken with the Eckersberg 
tradition which dominated Danish art almost 
up to the time of the earliest efforts of 
Krojer and his contemporaries. Eckersberg, 
though he had not the genius of his pupil 
Marstrand, the most famous of Denmark's 
painters, was yet the real founder of the old 
national school of Danish Art. He flourished 
in the earlier half of the century, after study- 
ing for some years in David's studio in Paris. 

modern French School." Before, however, 
what Lange calls the abrupt break in the 
development of Danish national art made 
by Kroyer, Toxen, and others, some of the 
older Danish marine painters did much to 
prove that Eckersberg and his pupils had 
not marked the limits of the evolution of 
art. One of the most gifted of these painters, 
who stands midway between Eckersberg and 
the Skagen School, was Anton Melbye, of 
whose fine picture, " Stranded," we give an 

The abandonment of the traditions of the 


The Eckersberg School, was bound to pass 
into the region of history before the later 
European movements. It was incapable of 
solving the problems arising out of the new 
interpretation of Life and Nature. As 
Julius Lange, the well-known Danish art 
critic and Avriter, points out, " Eichness and 
brilliancy of colouring, truthful rendering of 
picturesque phenomena, and a thoroughly 
realistic interpretation of human life : these 
demand light, air, Nature — in short, all the 
characteristics displayed with such brilliant 
ability by the powerful and flourishing 

older Danish masters for those of modern 
foreign art was a departure made not exclu- 
sively by Danish painters, but also by the 
younger sculptors who were not content to 
follow too devoutly in the steps even of the 
incomparable Thorvaldsen. This, however, 
was but a transition. The men who had 
been brought under the influence of the 
foreign schools were never in serious danger 
of producing merely imitative work destitute 
of originality and national characteristics. 
" If the artists did not intend to leave their 
own country altogether," says Lange, " the 

f- ■■ 










claims of their home 
would return in full 
force, although on a 
somewhat modified 
technical basis. Kealism, 
above all things, de- 
mands that the objects 
shall be before one's 
eyes, that they may be 
familiarly and inti- 
mately handled. Eealism 
at a distance is an 
impossibility. Kroyer, 
who had already pro- 
duced scenes from the 
Danish coast-life and 
fisherfolks' doings, now 
returned to this branch 
of painting with re- 
newed vigour and suc- 
cess. This style had 
great weight with 
Michael Ancher, who 
has rendered with great 
breadth of style the Danish seaman ; the 
same may be said of his wife Anna Ancher. 
Both had carried on their studies principally 
at home, as had Yiggo Johansen and Julius 
Paulsen, painters of such great natural 
ability that they rose to the standard of 




foreign art with but 
little study in its 
schools."" Michael Peter 
Ancher was born in 
1849, on the rocky 
island of Bornholm, in 
the Baltic. His parents, 
though poor, were in-" 
telligent and well edu- 
cated, as, indeed, are 
most of the Danish 
peasantry. They were 
ambitious of making a 
student of their son, 
whom they were quick 
to perceive had been 
endow^ed by Nature 
with more than average 
ability. They had not 
the means, however, to 
gratify this praise- 
worthy ambition, for at 
that time Denmark had 
not fully developed the 
splendid system of education which she has 
now placed within the reach of the humblest 
of her citizens. Disappointed of the hope 
of becoming a student of the University, 
Michael had to submit to the drudgery of a 
clerkship in the office of a great landowner. 


















Here, however, he was fortunate enough to 
make the acquaintance of some travening 
artists, from whom he canght the inspiration 
that decided his future career. In 1871 he 
was able to enter the Academy of Arts at 
Copenhagen, where he studied 
for four years; He made his 
delmt at the yearly exhibition 
of the Copenhagen Academy 
in 1874, and two years later 
he achieved a marked success 
with his picture of a scene 
from fisher-Hfe. In 1880 he 
was awarded the highest hon- 
ours of the Academy of Arts 
both at Copenhagen and Ber- 
hn, by his great picture, "Will 
She Clear the Point ? " This 
fine piece of realistic painting 
will probably ensure his en- 
during fame. It has been 
secured for the Danish nation, 
and hangs amongst the master- 
pieces of modern Danish art 
ui the National Gallery at 
Copenhagen. The picture re 
presents a group of fishermen 
watching the efforts of a vessel 
to escape shipwreck on the 
dangerous reef of which I have 
already spoken. In certain 
states of the wind vessels some- 
times beat about for days to 

avoid this dangerous point if they cannot 
clear it. To fail in the attempt to clear it 
means that the services of the Skagen life- 
boat will be needed. There is another very 
fine picture of Ancher's, " Taking the Life- 
boat Over the Sand-dunes," of which we 
likewise give an illustration. Madame Ancher 
is also a fine painter. She received her first 
training from her husband. 

Kroyer and Ancher live near to each other 
in picturesque bungalows, bowered in trees, 
and built in the cosy, unpretentious Danish 
style. Kroyer makes a spacious old out- 
house do duty for a studio. He spread out 
for me on the floor of this interesting 
sanctum several newly finished and partly 
finished sea-pieces of great power and 
suggestiveness. He has a wonderful eye for 
distance, and wonderful skill in painting 
atmospheric effects. I confess, however, 
that, much as I admire Kroyer's pictures, I 
prefer Ancher 's, whose subjects, if not the 
treatment of them, appeal to my poor 
imagination with greater force. I am not 
an art critic, and therefore have no reputa- 
tion to risk in giving expression to this 
heretical preference. After the kind way in 
which both artists received me, it is perhaps a 
little ungracious to speak of preference for one 
over the other. Both are strong and inspir- 
ing personalities, possessing the modesty of 

of&H'^a- r^u^o- 




genius and the kindly characteristics which 
make them honoured and beloved by the 
humble fisherfolk amongst whom they live. 
Both, too, have had the good fortune to be 
married to clever and beautiful women. It 
has been objected to the paintings of these 
artists that they cannot claim to rank with 
the highest order of works of art, as they 
are too realistic of what is, after all, but a 

rough phase of life in the work-a-day world. 
They are not, I am told, suggestive enough 
of high ideals. To this I reply that the 
more I study the works of Kroyer and 
Anclier — the more I gaze upon the sturdy 
forms and look into the calm, beautiful, 
heroic faces they have grouped and painted, 
the less I wonder why Christ should have 
chosen fishermen for His companions. 

rfc ^^timm:»^J^ms^ 



* H.^ 


Copyright, 1895, by the Photographic Union, Munich."] 

Fkom the Picture by E. Klimsche, in the possession of Messrs. Guinn and Hempel, Leipzig. 


By Annie Fellows Johnston.* 

Illustrated by Henry Rait. 

I HE little man in 
motley, thrusting 
liis face through 
the curtains of the 
big circus tent, 
looked out on the 
gathering crowds 
and grinned. To 
him that assem- 
blage of gaping 
backwoods pioneers 
was a greater show 
than the one he 
was travelling with, 
although the circus 
itself was a pioneer 
in its way. It was the first that had ever 
travelled through the almost unbroken 
forests of southern Indiana, and the fame of 
its performance at Yincennes had spread to 
the Ohio long before the plodding oxen had 
drawn the heavy lion cages half that distance. 
Such wild rumours of it had found their way 
across the sparsely settled hills and hollows, 
that families who had not been out of sight 
of their cabin chimneys in five years or more 
were drawn irresistibly circus w^ard. 

Standing on a barrel, behind a hole in the 
canvas of the tent, the little clown amused 
himself by watching the stream of arrivals. 
As far as he could see, down the glaringly 
sunny road, rising clouds of dust betokened 
the approach of a seemingly endless procession. 
The whole county appeared to be flocking 
to the commons just outside of Burnville, 
where the annual training in military tactics 
took place on " muster-days." People were 
coming by the wagon -load ; nearly every 
horse carried double, and one old nag ambled 
up with a row of boys astride her patient 
back from neck to tail. 

It was a hot afternoon in August, and a 
rank, almost overpowering odour of dog- 
fennel rose from the dusty weeds trampled 
down around the tent. The little clown was 
half stifled by the dust, the heat, and the 
smell, and the perspiration trickled down his 

* Copyri'=rht:, 1899, by the S. S. McClure Co., in the 
United States of America. 

grotesquely painted face ; but an occasional 
impatient flapping of his handkerchief to 
clear away the dust of a new arrival was all 
that betrayed his discomfort. He was 
absorbed in the conversation of a little group 
who, seated on a log directly under his peep- 
hole in the canvas, were patiently waiting 
for the performance to begin. 

"My motley can't hold a candle to theirs," 
he thought, with an amused chuckle, as he 
surveyed them critically. " Judging by the 
cut of the girl's old silk dress, it was a part 
of her grandmother's wedding finery, and she 
probably spun the stuff for that sun bonnet 
herself. But the man — Moses in the 
bulrushes 1 People back East wouldn't 
believe me if I told them how he is togged 
out : tow trousers, broadcloth coat with brass 
buttons, bare feet, and a coon skin cap, on 
this the hottest of all the hot dog-days ever 

He wiped his face again after this inven- 
tory, and steadied himself on the barrel. 
All unconscious of the audience they were 
entertaining, the man and girl were retailing 
the neighbourhood news to a tired-looking 
little woman, who sat on the log beside them, 
with a heavy baby in her arms. Their broad 
Western speech was as unfamiliar as it was 
amusing to their unseen listener. The barrel 
shook with his suppressed laughter, as they 
repeated the rumours they had heard 
regarding the circus. 

" Thar was six oxen to draw the lion 
cages," said the girl, fanning herself with 
her sunbonnet. " Sam said them beasts 
roared to beat the Dutch — two of 'em. And 
he says thar's a pock-marked Irishman as 
goes around between acts with a nine-banded 
armadillo. Ef ye tech it, ye'll never have 
the toothache no more. But thar's suthin' 
better nor him. Sam says he Tows we'll 
jest all die a-laughin' when we see the clown. 
The whole end of the State has gone wild 
over that air clown. Sam says they make 
more fuss over him than they w^ould over the 
President ef he was t'come to this neck o' 

Here the auditor behind the scenes, with 
his hand on his heart, made such a low bow 




that he lost his balance and nearly upset the 

" I reckon the elyfunt will be the biggest 
sight," drawled the man. "That's wliat 
drawed me here. I ain't never seen even 
the picter of an elyfunt, and they say this 
is the real live 
article from t'other 
side of the world. 
They say it kin eat 
a cock of hay six 
foot high at one 

Here the baby 
stirred and fretted 
in the woman's 
arms, and she 
wearily lifted it to 
an easier position 
agai nst her shoulder. 

"I wish Jim would 
hurry up," she 
sighed, wiping her 
hot face on a corner 
of her homespun 

"He's over 
yander helpin' ole 
Mis' Potter put up 
her gingerbread 
stand," answered the 
girl, pointing to a 
large oak - tree on 
the edge of the 
common. "I see 
'em when she first 
come a-drivin' up 
on that big ox-sled, 
with a barrel of 
cider behind her. 
Law% I reckon she 
hain't never missed 
bein' on hand to 
sell her cakes and 
cider here on 
muster-days nary a 
time in ten years." 

"'Tain't Mis' 
Potter," answered 
the older woman. 
"She's ben laid up 
with rheumatiz 
nearly all summer. 

It's Boone Ratcliffe's mother and his little 

" You don't mean it ? " exclaimed the 
girl, with eager interest, standing up to 
get a better view. " Not ole ' Madame 
Ratcliffe,' as pap calls her 1 I've ben honin' 

for a sight of her ever sence last spring, 
when I heerd she'd come out from Mary- 
land. I used to liear a])out her afore 
Boone married M'randy. It was M'randy 
as told me about her. She said the ole lady 
was so rich and so stuck-up that she never 


» 1 1 •'' •'Jll" '.''■ '.' 

' "'"'''O'l I ■',""'■ M:. 

:"lli}">nli»um, ,^,01^ > 

' The little clown amused himself by watching the stream of arrivals." 

even tied her own shoes. They had slaves 
and land and money and everything that 
heart could wish, and they didn't think 
that M'randy was good enough for their 
only son. The letters they writ to Boone 
trying to head him off made M'randy so 




Ole Mis' Katcliffe tried to npologise fer coniin'.' 

mad that I didn't suppose she'd ever get 
over it." 

" She didn't," answered the little woman, 
"and it was scant welcome they got when 
they come. The letter they sent a month 
aforehand never got here, so of conrse nobody 
knowed they was a-comin', and they wa'n't 
nobody down to the Ohio Eiver landin' 
tt) meet 'em. My Jim he happened to be 
thar when they got off'n the fiat- boat. They 
was dreadful put out when they didn't find 
Boone watching out for 'em, after comin' 
all the way from Maryland. Goodness knows 
what 'ud become of 'em ef Jim hadn't hap- 
pened acrost 'em. The boat had gone on 
down the riv^er and left 'em settin' thar on 
■ shore amongst the bales and boxes, as help- 
less as two kittens. Jim lie seen 'em a-set- 

tin' thar, and bein' a soft-hearted chap and 
knowiii' suthin' Avas wrong, he up and spoke. 

"They was so bewildered like, 'count of 
not finding Boone, and everything bein' so 
dif'runt from what they lotted on, that they 
w^as well-nigh daft. The ole man had ben 
sick ever sence they left Pittsburg, and they 
was both plum tuckered out with that long 
flat-boat trip. Jim he jest h'isted 'em into 
the wagon, big chest and all, and brought 
'em on to Burnville. 

" He said 'twas plain to be seen they 
hadn't never been used to roughin' it in any 
way. The ole gentleman was so sick he had 
to lean his liead on her shoulder all the way, 
and she kep' a-strokin' his white hair with 
her fine soft fingers, and talkin' to him as if 
he'd ben a child. She tried to chirk him 



up by tellin' bim they'd soon be to Boone's 
home, and talkin' 'bout wlien Boone was a 
bttle feller, till Jim couldn't hardly stand it, 
he's that soft-hearted. 

" He knew all the time what a disapp'int- 
ment was in store when they should set eyes 
on M'randy and the cabin, and find Boone 
growed to be so rough and common. It was 
dark when they got thar. Boone hadn't got 
home yit, and thar wa'n't a sign of a light 
about the place. So Jim lef the ole folks 
setting in the wagon, and went in to break 
the news to M'randy, knowin' what a high- 
tempered piece she is at times. He said she 
was settin' on the doorstep in her bare feet 
and dirty ole linsey-woolsey dress, jawin' 
little William. She'd ben a-makin' soap all 
day, and was dead tired. 

" When Jim tole her what 'twas, the sur- 
prise seemed to strike her all of a heap. 
She never made a move to git up, and as 
soon as she could git her breath she begun 
to splutter like blue blazes. She said some 
folks had more burdens laid onto their shoul- 
ders than by rights was their share, and she 
couldn't see wliat made them ole people come 
trackin' out where they was neither wanted 
nor expected. She hadn't no airthly use for 
that stuck-up ole Mis' Ratcliffe, if she was 
Boone's mother. Oh, she jest talked up 

"Jim he was afraid they would hear her 
clear out in the road, so he kep' try in' to 
smoothe her down, and then he went out 
and tried to smoothe things over to the ole 
people. By the time they'd climbed out'n the 
wagon and walked up the path William had 
lit a candle, and she was lioldin' it over her 
head in the doorway. The way Jim tole it 
I could jest see how they stood lookin' at 
each other, like as they was takin' their 
measures. Jim said they both seemed to 
see the difference, M'randy so frowsy and 
common-lookin', for all her prettiness, and 
the ole lady so fine and aristocratic in her 
elegant dress and bunnit. He said he'd never 
fergit how white and tired-lookin' their old 
faces showed up in the candlelight, and sort 
of disapp'inted, too, over the welcome they'd 
ben expectin' and didn't git. 

" M'randy didn't even offer to shake hands. 
After she'd stared a minute she said, sorter 
stiff-like, ' Well, I s'pose you may as well 
^come on in.' Jim says there was tears in 
the ole lady's eyes when she follered M'randy 
into the cabin, but she wdped 'em away real 
(piick, and spoke up cheerful to ole Mr. 

" The room was in such a muss there wa'irt 

an empty chair to set on tell M'randy jerked 
the things off two of'm and kicked the stuff 
out of sight under the bed. Then she dusted 
'em with her apron, and said, in a long- 
suff'erin' sort of tone, that she reckoned 'twas 
about as cheap settin' as standin'. 

" Ole Mis' Ratcliffe tried to apologise fer 
comin'. She said that their daughter back 
in Maryland tried to keep 'em from it, but 
that Boone couldn't come to them, and it 
had been ten years since he had left home, 
and they felt they must see him once more 
before they died. Jim said it was so pitiful 
the way she talked that he got all worked 

" Why didn't tliey turn right around and 
go home the next day ? ' cried the girl, with 
flashing eyes. " That's M'randy all over 
again wdien she once gits her temper up ; 
but people as rich as them don't have to put 
up with nobody's high and mighty ways." 

" They are not rich any more," was the 
answer. "A few years ago they lost all 
they had, slaves, land, and everything, and 
their married daughter in Baltimore is takin' 
care of 'em. She was sure they wouldn't 
find it agreeable out here, so she provided 
the money for 'em to come back on ; but the 
ole man had his pocket picked comin' down 
on that flat-boat, and they don't feel as they 
could write back and ask her for more. She's 
good to 'em as can be, but she hasn't got 
any more than she needs, and they hate to 
ask for it. That's why the ole lady is here 
to-day, takin' Mis' Potter's place. Boone 
persuaded her to come, and tole her if she 
could make as much as Mis' Potter ahvays 
does, it will be enough to pay their way back 
to Maryland. He helped her get ready. I 
don't know what he said to M'randy to make 
her stand aside and not interfere, but she 
made up the gingerbread as meek as Moses, 
and let Jim roll the barrel of cider out of the 
smoke-house without a word." 

" Why don't Boone scratch around and 
raise the money somehow?" put in the man, 
who luid chewed in interested silence as he 
hstened to the story. Now he stopped to 
bite another mouthful from a big twist of 
tobacco he took from his broadcloth coat 

" 'Pears like their only son is the one that 
ought to do fer 'em, and at least he could 
make M'randy shut up and treat his parents 

" Boone !" sniffed the woman. " Why, 
he's under M'randy's thumb so tight that he 
dassent sneeze if slie don't take snuff. _ Be- 
sides, he's ben on the flat of his back oft" and 



on all summer, with dumb ague. It's run 
into a slow fever now, and it takes every 
picayune they can scrape together to git his 
medicines. Then, too, M'randy sprained her 
ankle a month or so back, and things have 
been awful sence then. Tlie ole man he 
don't realise he is in the way, he's so childish 
and broken down. He jest sorter droops 
around, pinhi' for the comforts he's always 
ben used to, in a way that almost breaks his 
ole wife's heart. She feels it keen enough 
for both of 'em, because she can't bear to 
see him lackin' anything he needs, and she'd 
rather die than be a burden to anybody. 

" I tell Jim I'm sorry for the whole set, 
and I can see it isn't the pleasantest tiling 
for M'randy to give up a room to them 
when thar's only two in the cabin, and her 
ways ain't their ways, and their bein' thar 
puts everything out of joint ; but Jim he 
sides with the ole people. He's mighty 
sorry for 'em, and would have put his hand 
in his own pocket and paid their expenses 
long ago back to Maryland, ef he'd a-ben 
able. He's ben a great comfort to the ole 
lady, he's jest that soft-hearted. I hope 
she'll sell out as fast as Mis' Potter always 

Before the girl could echo her wish there 
was a discordant scraping inside the tent, a 
sound of the band beginning to tune their 
instruments. Instantly tliere was a rush to- 
ward the tent, and all three of the little 
group sprang to their feet. The little woman 
looked wildly around for Jim, with such an 
anxious expression that the clown lingered 
a moment, regardless of the stream of people 
pouring into the entrance so near him that 
the curtain wliich screened him from public 
view w^as nearly torn down. He waited 
until he saw a burly, good-natured man 
push liis way through the crowds and 
transfer the heavy baby from the woman's 
tired arms to his broad shoulder. Then he 
turned away with a queer little smile on his 
painted face. 

" He's jest that soft-hearted," he re- 
peated, half under his breath. The woman's 
story had stirred him strangely. " It's a 
pity there's not more like him," he con- 
tinued. " I guess that too few Jims and 
too many M'randys is what is the matter 
with this dizzy old planet." 

" What's that ye're grumbling about, 
Humpty Dunipty F " asked the pock-marked 
Irishman as he came up with his nine-banded 
armadillo, all ready for the performance. 
Then in his most professional tones : " If it 
is the toothache yez ha\'e now, I'll be afther 

curing it entoirely wid wan touch of this 
baste from " 

" Oh^ get out ! " exclaimed the clown, 
putting his hand on the tall Iiishman's 
shoulder and springing lightly down fiom 
the barrel. " I'm dead sick of all this 
monkey business. If it wasn't a matter of 
bread-and-butter I wouldn't laugh again in 
a year." 

" Yez couldn't make anybody out there in 
that big aujence belave it," laughed the 
Irishman. " They think yer life is wan per- 
petooal joke ; that yez are a joke yerself for 
that matther, a two-legged wan, done up in 
cap and bells." 

"You're right," said the clown bitterly, 
looking askance at his sti iped legs. " But 
' a man's a man for a' that and a' that,' and 
he gets tired sometimes of always being taken 
for a jesting fool. Curse this livery ! " 

The Irishman looked at him shiewdly. 
" You should have gone in for a 'vaisity cap 
and gown, and Oi've been thinking sometimes 
that maybe yez did start out that way." 

A dull led glowed undei' the paint on the 
clown's face, and he ran into the ring in 
response to the signal witliout a reply. A 
thnndering round of applause greeted him, 
which broke out again as he glanced all 
around with a purposely silly leer. Then he 
caught sight of Jim's honest face, smiling 
expectantly on him from one of the front 
benches. It struck him like a pain that this 
man could not look through his disguise of 
tawdry circus trappings, and see that a 
man's heart was beating under the clown's 
motley. There came a sudden fierce longing 
to tear off his outward chai^acter of mounte- 
bank for a moment, and show Jhn the stifled 
nature underneath, noble enough to recog- 
nise the tender chi^'alry hidden in the rough 
exterior of the aw^kward backwoodsman, and 
to be claimed by him as a kindred spirit. 

As he laughed and danced and sang no 
one dreamed that his thoughts kept re\'ert- 
ing to scenes that the woman's story had 
called up, or that a plan was slowly shaping 
in his mind whereby he might serve the 
homesick old soul waiting out under the 
oak-tree for the performance to be done. 

Ko wonder that people accustomed to see- 
ing old Mrs. Potter in that place, gowned in 
homespun, and knitting a coarse yarn sock, 
had stopped to stare at the newcomer. Such 
a type of liigh-born, perfect ladyhood had 
never appeared in their midst before. The 
dress that she wore was a relic of the old 
Maryland days ; so was the lace cap that 
rested like a bit of rare frost-work on her 



'He had been funny enough in the ring, but now they found his jokes irresistible." 

silvery hair. Mrs. Potter knew everybody 
for miles around, and was ready to langli 
and joke with anyone who stopped at her 
stand. Mrs. Ratcliffe sat in dignified silence, 
a faint colour deepening in her cheeks hke 
the blush of a winter rose. It was so much 
worse than she had anticipated to have these 
rude strangers staring at her, as if she were 

a part of the show. She breatlied a sigh of 
relief when the music began, for it drew^ the 
crowds into the tent as if by magic. She 
and little William were left entirely alone. 

With the strident boom of the bass viol 
came the rank smell of tlie dog-fennel that 
liurrying feet had left bruised and wilting in 
the sun! All the rest of her life that warm, 



weedy odour always broiiglit back that 
immiliating experience like a keen pain. 
The horses in the surrounding grove stamped 
restlessly and whinnied as they switched off 
the flies. The long ride and the unaccus- 
tomed labour of the morning had exhausted 
her. Bhe began to nod in her chair, giving 
herself up to a sense of drowsiness, for as 
long as the people were in the tent she would 
have no occupation. 

Her white head dropped lower and lower, 
until presently she was oblivious to all sur- 
roundings. Little William, sitting on the old 
wood-sled with his back against the cider 
barrel, was forgotten. M'randy and tlie ill- 
kept cabin vanished entirely from her memory. 
She w^as back in the old Maryland days on 
her father's plantation, hedged about with 
loving forethought, as tenderly sheltered as 
some delicate white flower. Every path had 
been made smooth for her, every wish antici- 
pated, all her life long, until that day when 
they had set their faces westward to find 
Boone. It was coming down the Ohio on 
that long journey by flat-boat that she 
suddenly awoke to the knowledge that her 
husband's illness had left him a broken-down 
old man, as weak and irresponsible as a child. 

But mercifully her dreams were back of 
that time. They were back with Boone in 
his gay young boyhood, when he danced 
minuets with the Governor's daughter, and 
entertained his college-friends in lordly style 
on the old plantation. Back of that time 
when the restlessness of his teens sent him 
roving over the Alleghanies to the frontier, 
regardless of their long-cherished ambitions 
for him. Back of the time when in a sudden 
mad whim he had married a settler's pretty 
daughter, whom he was ashamed to take back 
to civilisation when he thought of the 
Baltimore belles to whom he had paid boyish 
court. He had not stopped to consider her 
rough speech and uncouth manners. He had 
been a long time out in the wilderness, he 
was only twenty, and her full red lips 
tempted him. 

If the dreams could only have stopped 
then, that little space she slept, while the 
circus band thrummed and drummed inside 
the tent, and the shadows of the hot ilugust 
afternoon lengthened under the still trees 
outside, would have been a blessed respite. 
But they repeated the unpleasant parts as 
well. They came on down to the night 
of that unwelcome arrival. They showed her 
the days when Boone lay prostrate with a 
slow malarial fever; the days when the fierce 
heat made him drag his pallet desperately 

from one corner to another across tlu^ bare 
puncheons, trying to find a spot where he 
could be comfortable. She could see him 
lying as he had so often lain, with his face 
turned towards the back door, looking out 
with aching eyes on the tall corn that filled 
the little clearing. In his feverish wanderings 
he complained that it was crowding up around 
the house trying to choke him. x\nd there 
was little William, little nine - year - old 
William, sitting on the floor beside him, 
attempting to flap away the flies with a bunch 
of walnut leaves. There were long intervals 
sometimes when the heat overpowered the 
child with drowsiness. Then the walnut 
branch wavered uncertainly or stopped in 
mid -air, while he leaned against the table 
leg with closed eyes and open mouth. Some- 
times Miranda slept on the doorstep, bare- 
footed, as usual, with a dirty bandage around 
her sprained ankle. 

In that short sleep she seemed to re-live 
the whole summer that had dragged on until 
her sense of dependence grew to be 
intolerable. Miranda's shrill complaining 
came penetrating again into the tiny room 
where she sat by her husband's bed, and the 
old head was bowed once more on his pillow, 
as she sobbed, " Oh, William, dear heart, 
if the Lord would only take us away together ! 
I cannot bear to be a burden to anyone ! " 
It was the sound of her own sobbing that 
awakened her, and she sat up with a sudden 
start, realising that she Jiad been asleep. 
She must have slept a long time. In that 
interval of unconsciousness the tavern-keeper 
from Burnville had erected a rival stand a 
few rods away. 

She saw with dismay his attractive display 
of " store " goods. Then her face flushed 
as he began to set out whisky bottles and 
glasses. Her first impulse was to gather up 
her belongings and get home as quickly as 
possible. In her perplexity she looked around 
for little William. Regardmg a circus with 
such contempt herself, it had never occurred 
to her that he would care to see it. 

He was a timid little fellow, who always 
hid when company came to the liouse, and 
he had never been away from home more 
than a dozen times in his life. The crowds 
frightened him, and he stayed as closely as 
a shadow^ at his grandmother's elbow until 
the music began. Then he forgot himself. 
It thrilled him indescribably, and he watched 
with longing eyes as the people crowded into 
the tent. It seemed to him that he must 
certainly go wild if he could not follow. But 
they had sold nothing. Even if they had. 



lie would not have dared to ask for eiioii^i^li 
money to pay his admission, it seemed sucli 
an enormous sum. As she began to nod in 
her chair he began to edge nearer the tent. 
He would catch now and then a word of the 
clown's jokes, and liear the roars of laughter 
that followed. When the clown began to 

' We are going back to Maryland, dear heart ! ' 

sing, William had one ear pressed against 
the tent. People clapped and cheered up- 
roariously at the last line of every stanza. 
He could not hear enough of the words to 
understand why. In the general commotion 
he was conscious of only one thing : he w^as 
on the outside of that tent, and he must get 
inside or die. 

Regardless of consequences, he tln'ew him- 
self on tlie grass and wriggled ai'ound until 
he succeeded in S(|ueezing himself under the 
canvas. There was a moment of dizzy be- 
wilderment as he sat up and looked around. 
Then some cold, squirming tiling touched 
the back of his neck. He gave a smothered 
cry of terror ; it 
was the elephant's 
trunk. He had 
come up directly 
under the animal 
" from t'other side 
of the world, that 
could eat a six-foot 
cock of hay at one 

As he sat there, 
shivering and 
blubbering, afraid 
to move because 
he did not know 
which end of the 
clumsy monster 
was h e a d and 
which tail, he 
heard a loud 
guffaw. The pock- 
marked Iiishman 
who had charge of 
the nine - banded 
armadillo had seen 
the little side-show, 
and it doubled him 
up with laughter. 
He roared and 
slapped his thigh 
and laughed again 
until he was out of 
breath. Then he 
gravely wiped his 
eyes and drew the 
boy out from under 
the great animal. 
W^illiam clung to 
him, sobbing. 
Then the warm- 
hearted fellow, see- 
ing that he was 
really terrified, 
took him around 
and showed him all the sights. In the 
delight of that hour, home, grandmother, 
and the world outside were completely 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Ratcliffe sat wondering 
what had become of the boy. People began 
to straggle out of the tent. There was to 
be another performance after dark, and she 



expected to find her customers among those 
wha stayed for that. The tavern-keeper 
began calhng attention to his refreshments 
in a facetious way that drew an amused 
crowd around him. Her hopes sank, as 
group after group passed her without 
stopping. Two young fellows from the 
village who had 
been drinking 
pushed roughly 
against her table. 

" Hi, granny ! " 
hiccoughed one of 

"Purty fine 
doughnuts, ole 
girl ! " He gath- 
ered up a plateful, 
and tried to find 
his pocket with 
unsteady fingers. 
She stood up with 
a sickening feeling 
of helplessness and 
looked around ap- 
pealingly. Just 
then a heavy hand 
struck the fellow 
in the mouth, and 
jerked him back 
by his coat-collar. 
The pock-marked 
Irishman, to whom 
the bewildered 
little William still 
clung, had under- 
fciken to find the 
boy's grandmother 
for h i m . T h e 
child's artless 
story had aroused 
his warmest sym- 
pathies, and noth- 
ing could have 
given him greater 
pleasure than this 
opportunity to 
fight for her. 

" Put thim back, 
you ugly thafe o' 
the worruld," he 
roared, " or Oi'U 
throw yez entoirely over the sorcuss tint ! " 

The man bristled up for a fight, but one 
look into the big Irishman's glowering eyes 
sobered him enough to make him drop the 
cakes and slink away. 

The Irishman looked embarrassed as Mrs. 
Ratcliffe began to thank him with tears in 

her eyes, and hurried back to tlie tent. Tlie 
look of distress deepened on her face. 
Everybody passed her table for the one 
made popular by the loud-voiced man wiio 
knew so well how to advertise his wares. 
With a stifled groan she looked around on 
the great pile of provisions she had brought. 

'* 'The truest gentleman I have met in many a day ! ' 

What quantities of good material utterly 
w^asted ! What would Miranda say ? 

As she looked around her in dismay she 
saw the clow^n coming tow^ard her, still in 
his cap and bells. He had been watching 
the scene from a distance. Her distress was 
pitiful. To be compelled to w^ait on this 



jesting fool like any common barmaid wonld 
fill her cup of degradation to overflowing. 
What could she do if he accosted her 
familiarly as he did everyone else ? 

He leaned over and took off his grotesque 
cap. " Madam," he said, in a low, respectful 
tone, "I have no money, but if you will 
kindly give me a cake and a mug of cider, 
you shall soon have plenty of customers." 

Greatly surprised, she filled him a cup, 
wondering what he would do. There was a 
rush for that part of the grounds as the hero 
of the hour appeared. He had been funny 
enough in the ring, but now they found his 
jokes irresistible. His exaggerated praises 
of all he ate and drank were laughed at, but 
everybody followed his example. More than 
one gawky boy bought something for the 
sake of being made the subject of his 
flattering witticisms. The tavern-keeper 
called and sang in vain. As long as the 
clown told funny stories and praised Mrs. 
Ratcliffe's gingerbread all other allurements 
were powerless. He stayed with her until 
the last cake had been bought and the cider 
barrel was empty. 

It was nearly sundown when she started 
home. Jim came up to roll the empty barrel 
on to the sled, to place her chair against it, 
and help little William hitch up the oxen ; 
but when she looked around to thank the 
little clown he had disappeared. No one 
could tell where he had gone. 

Never in her girlhood, rolling home in 
the stately family coach from some gay 
social conquest, had she felt so victorious. 
She jingled the silk reticule at her side with 
childish pleasure. She could hardly w-ait for 
the slow oxen to plod the two long miles 
toward home, and when they stopped in 
front of the little cabin she was trembling 
with eagerness. Hurrying up the path 
through the gathering dusk she poured her 
treasure out on her husband's bed. 

" Look ! " she cried, laying her face on 
the pillow and slipping an arm around his 
neck. "We are going back to Maryland, 
dear heart ! " She nestled her faded cheek 
against his with a happy little sob. " Oh, 
William, we need not be a burden any 
longer, for we're going home to-morrow ! " 
* ^ *• * * 

Later, the full August moon swung up 
over the edge of tlie forest. It flooded the 

little clearing with its white light, and 
turned the dusty road in front of the cabin 
to a broad band of silver. A slow^, steady 
tramp of many feet marching across a 
wooden bridge in the distance fell on the 
intense stillness of the summer night. 

" It's the circus," said Boone, raising his 
head to listen. " I reckon they're travelhn' 
by night on account of the heat, and they'll 
be pushin' on down to the river." 

His wife limped to the door and sat down 
on the step to watch for its coming, but his 
mother hurried out to the fence and leaned 
across the bars, waiting. 

A strange procession of unwieldy monsters, 
never before seen in this peaceful woodland, 
loomed up in the distance, huge and black, 
while a stranger procession of fantastic 
shadows stalked grimly by its side. The 
sleepy keepers dozed in their saddles, filing 
by in ghostly silence, save for the clanking 
of trace-chains and the creaking of the heavy 
lion cages. 

At the extreme end of the long line came 
the tired little clown on the trick mule. A 
sorrier-looking object could not be imagined, 
as he sat with his knees drawn up and his 
head bent dejectedly down. He did not 
notice the figure leaning eagerly over the 
bars, until she called him. Then he looked 
up with a start. The next instant he had 
dismounted and was standing bareheaded in 
the road before her. The moonlight made 
a halo of her white hair, and lighted up her 
gentle, aristocratic face with something of its 
old high-born beauty. 

" I wanted to thank you," she said, hold- 
ing out her slender hand to the painted 
little jester with the gracious dignity that 
had always been her charm. "You dis- 
appeared this afternoon before I could tell 
you how much your courtesy has done for 
me and mine." 

He bowed low over the little hand. 

" I bid you farewell, sir," she added 
gently. " The truest gentleman I have met 
in many a day ! " It was the recognition 
that he had craved. She had seen the man 
through the motley. He looked up, his face 
glowing as if that womanly recognition had 
knighted him ; and with the remembrance 
of that touch resting on him like a royal 
accolade he rode on after the procession 
into the depths of the moonlighted forest. 

. ^^^ -^Sf?^- 

B Xabour of Xove. 

From the Pictuhb: p.y Pkucy Tarrant. 

PJioto by} \_F. Frith & Co., Reigate. 




By Geoege a. Wade. 

THP] second and concluding article deal- 
ing with this subject must begin with 
Winchester, the oldest and probably the 
most renowned public school we have, scarcely 
excepting Eton and Harrow. Winchester 
boasts two fine memorials to her brave sons 
who have fallen in battle. One of these is a 
memorial to Old Wykehamists who were killed 
in the Crimean war, and it stands in the ante- 
chapel of the College. But perhaps the other 
memorial will most attract the average visitor. 
It takes the form of a charming gateway into 
the cloisters, and was erected in remembrance 
of Sir Herbert Stewart, who, as many readers 
will doubtless recollect, was killed in the 
Egyptian campaign of the early eighties. 

To the w^orld this gentle, beloved soldier 
was "Sir" Herbert Stewart ; to his old college 
he ever remained simply " Herbert Stewart," 
as is shown in the inscription over the beauti- 
ful gateway. The monument is in excellent 
taste, the coat-of-arms and the two angels 
standing above the inscription being all that 
the gallant man commemorated would him- 
self have desired, with his name, to perpetuate 

his memory at the school of which he was so 
very proud. As one walks through this 
little gate one wonders whether, on that arid 
Egyptian desert, Stewart ever sang that 
famous evening song which has re-echoed 
througli these very cloisters for so many long 
generations ; and we hear him, in fancy, as 
he marches on that final lonely march, and 
as he sinks into the last unconsciousness, 
singing softly to himself, " Dulce Domum 

In these same cloisters, too, there are 
various tablets to other brave sons of 
Winchester who have died whilst serving their 
countiy ; and thus the old school of William 
of Wykeham can hold up its head with the 
proudest of military schools. 

Kipling has said that " There are in India 
hundreds of ' Stalkys ' who have come from 
Marlborough, Cheltenham, and Haileybury," 
and it must be confessed that Cheltenham 
has indeed sent out a goodly number of 
" Stalkys " who have helped to keep tlie 
glory of England bright. The famous school 
in Gloucestershire can show no less tlian 

This article forms a sequel to one ivhich appeared in the Win^dsor for December, 1899, and included 
the memorials of Eton, Harrow, Rughy, Marlborough, and others of our great publij schools. 




twenty-two tablets, erected to the memory of 
her old pupik who have either been killed in 
actual battle, or who liave died whilst doing 
active service under unusual conditions on 
behalf of their country. In some cases there 
are several names of brave men, slain in 
different campaigns, upon one tablet, though 
as a rule every separate tablet is supposed to 
contain only the names of men who fell in 
the same war. But Cheltenham ha^ had so 
many of the braVe that she has liad to get 
their names in wherever she could ! 

The tablets are large, of fine marble, but 
otherwise plain. They contain the name, the 
campaign, and the age of the soldier they are 
intended to commemorate, ranging from 


colonels down to ensigns, showing gallant 
fellows who have died in every corner of the 
world defending Britain or proclaiming her 
power. After you have spent an hour or 
two reading these tablets you will no longer 
wonder at Kipling's praise of Cheltenham 

When Haileybury sets about anything it 
must be allowed that she means business, and 
so we are not surprised to learn that one of the 
most beautiful memorials in any college or 
school chapel to the celebrated brave amongst 
" old boys " belongs to Haileybury, and is 
entirely her own, both in design and execution. 
And equally it must be confessed that the men 
honoured have deserved it, it being erected to 
the memory of the 
ever - famous Coghill 
and Hodson, who, with 
Teignmouth Melvill, 
of Harrow (spoken of 
in our first article), 
won immortal fame 
by their valiant deeds 
on that blackest and 
yet most glorious day 
in British annals, 
January 22nd, 1879, 
on the field of Isandl- 
whana. It will not be 
forgotten that, so 
i m pressed was H er 
Majesty with the 
splendid efforts of 
Melvill and Coghill to 
save the colours of 
the 24th on that day, 
when they were found 
dead with the flags 
wrapped round them, 
tliat even when dead 
these two heroes were 
awarded the Victoria 
Cross, an honour 
recently accorded also 
to the late Lieutenant 
F. H. Roberts— a 
unique method, surely, 
in the history of any 
nation, as regards 
rewarding its brave. 

Coghill and Hodson 
were great friends at 
school, and they were 
officers in the same 
regiment, and fought 
side by side on that 
terrible day. Hailey- 
bury has not forgotten 



to iiieiition these interesting 
facts in her fine recognition 
of them. It was decided that 
this memorial should take 
the form of the adorning of 
the dome in the chancel of 
the chapel by splendid paint- 
ings of the four Evangelists, 
and two of these are shown 
in our illustration. A brass 
on the wall in a recess on the 
left side of the altar records 
Haileybury's noble testi- 
mony to the two. Its situa- 
tion can be traced in the 
photograph, and its Latin 
inscription may be trans- 
lated into English somewhat 
as follows : — 

To the memory of Neville J. 
Aylmer Coghill and Geor^je Fred- 
erick J. Hodson, each of whom 
kept faithfully both his oath to his 
Queen and his vow of friendship, 
in that terrible slaughter near 
Isandlwhana, when they died 
"quitting themselves like men ! " 

The figures of the four Evan- 
gelists painted above are placed 
there in memory of these two true 
fellow soldiers and friends. 

This memorial was erected 
in June, 1880, and does 
honour to the school and 
the dead at the same time. 
Another memorial was the 
stone cross raised on the 
spot in Zululand where the two faithful 
friends' bodies were found, a photograph of 
which, by the kindness of the Haileybury 
masters, I am enabled to give here. 

Bedford Grammar School boasts a unique 
memorial to a dead soldier who received his 
education at that celebrated seat of learning. 
It is a cricket pavilion, and seems to show 
that this school has discovered a way of com- 
bining the useful with the commemorative 
that might well be followed by otliers. 

Henry Cross, to whose memory this pavilion 
is raised, was an " old boy " and afterwards an 
assistant-master at Bedford School. He lost 
his life in the Soudan war, just after the 
battle of Omdurman. He was not killed in 
battle, but died of the dreaded fever so 
common in those climes. Nor was he a 
" soldier of the Queen," for he w^as out there 
doing duty as war correspondent of the 
Mamhester Guardian. But he was a 
brave, noble fellow, none the less, ready 
to take a hand in driving back the foe if 
needed, and his old schoolfellows knew his 

Photo hij] 

IF. Frith i& Co., Reigate. 


worth and soon decided to commemorate his 
brave work in the manner described. 

Clifton College has adopted the form of 
brasses for all its memorials of distinguished 
Cliftonians who have been killed in battle. 
In the chapel the visitor may see these, but 
their number is not yet very large, since 
Clifton lias not behind it the antiquity and 
prowess which belong to the older founda- 
tions for producing many military men of 
renown. Yet the school near Bristol can 
claim, nevertheless, that when its sons have 
been " tried in the fire " literally, they have 
stood the ordeal nobly and well ; and the 
blood which was so loyally given by those 
brave fellows, to whose memory the brasses 
in the chapel at Clifton are placed, may be 
taken as being but the seed of an extensive 
harvest of great deeds and noble actions for 
the Empire which the future of this school 
may yet l)e called upon to record. 

Dulwich College has dispensed with monu- 
mental tablets and such forms, so far, in 
honouring the brave Alleynians who have 



been killed in battle. She remembers them 
in another unnsual way. Whenever there is 
recorded the death of any " old boj " whilst 
lighting for his Qneen and conn try, the head- 
master speaks a few appropriate words to the 
whole school assembled in chapel or hall, 
upon the lessons of that boy's death, and an 
obituary notice, with a full account of the 
old Dulwich boy's life, work, and death is 
published in the next number of the school 
magazine. The last " old boy " thus honoured 
was Lieutenant Keating, who was killed in a 
skirmish with the natives in West Africa. 
Repton School, so the head -master told 

Photo by M. Track,] 


me, has no special form of commemorating 
the deeds of '* old boys " who ha\'e fallen in 
battle. Yet in most cases there is put up in 
the school chapel either a small brass, if the 
commemoration be that of some individual 
soldier, or a stained-glass window, if the 
memorial be to several boys in one campaign. 
Thus the chapel at Eepton boasts several of 
these memorials, but they are too awkwardly 
placed, for light and other necessaries, to 
lend themselves easily to being photo- 

Bradfield College, strange to relate, has no 
memorial at all at the present time to its old 

alumni who have died gloriously on the 
battlefield. Bnt this year, 1900, is the 
jubilee of the famous Berkshire educational 
establishment, and there is a talk of erect "ng 
something that shall be worthy of the well 
known public school. 

It is certain that any article of this kind 
on our great public schools would be quite 
incomplete without some words upon one or 
two of the finest Scottish establishments. 
Fettes College, in Edinburgh, is at present 
engaged in erecting a very large brass upon 
which are to be engraved the names and 
details of all old Fettes boys wdio have thus 
distinguished themselves by 
meeting death bravely in 
their country's service. But 
at the time of writing this 
article that brass is in an 
unfinished condition. 

Scotland's military school, 
however — worthy of being 
coupled on equal terms with 
the best of the '' Stalky "- 
producing schools of the 
sister country — is Glen- 
almond. That is what every- 
body calls the noted Perth- 
shire school, though its true 
title is "Trinity College." 
But just as St. Peter's, 
Westminster, has become 
" Westminster School," so 
Ti'inity College has become 
' * ( i lenal mon d , " from the 
place it adorns. The late 
PtightHon. W. E. Gladstone 
had a very high opinion of 
Glenalmond and its scholars. 
And no wonder, when one 
reads their records. 

Two kinds of memorials 
exist at Glenalmond to dead 
heroes of the school. One 
takes the form of a most 
magnificent window of stained glass in the 
chancel of the chapel, over tlie altar. This 
was erected some years ago to keep in memory 
the valiant deeds of Lieutenant R. W. Hen- 
derson and Ensign J. W. Henderson, two 
brothers, who were killed whilst defending 
the boats at Cawnpore, on June 27th, 1857. 
Their bravery was mentioned by their leaders 
in despatches home as being specially note- 
worthy. Also Lieutenant C. J. T^an glands, 
of the 48rd Regiment, is commemorated by 
the same window ; he fell in the Maori war, 
in 1864. Probably there is no similar case 
on record where two brothers died too:ether 




like the Plender- 
soiis, both old cap- 
tains of their school. 
But, lovely as 
this window is, it 
i^ not Glenalmond's 
greatest glory in 
monuments of the 
kind we are dealing 
with. That is a 
marble slab on the 
wall, which is, 
doubtless, the finest 
tribute to bravery 
that any school in 
this land possesses. 
For, till Time shall 
be no more, there 
can be no grander 
deed, in every sense, 
done by mortal 
soldier — let alone 
by a boy just out of school, a mere lad of 
seventeen, who yet was an officer in the 74th 


Highlanders, now the "Highland Light 

iiAiiJivr.riJY ('olle(;e chapkIv, wrni painting: 


II \\( EL Alien. 




Photo by} 


And it was in one of the most memorable 
events in the history of our Army — not on 
the battlefield, but on the deep sea— that 
Alexander Cumine Eussell won immortal 
glory for himself and added lustre to the 
name of Glenahnond School, as the inscrip- 
tion on that marble tablet tells. Only it does 
not tell all the story, as it ought to do - that 
wonderful, ever- engrossing story of "The 
lioss of the BirJcenhmd.'''' 

Everybody knows the tale itself — how the 
troopship struck upon a rock ; how the 
soldiers were formed in ranks to die, whilst 
the women and children were being saved ; 
how the whole force, officers and men, stood 
at the salute whilst, in the deathless verse of 
Sir Francis Doyle — 

Still inch by inch the doomed ship sank low, 
Yet under steadfast men. 

Most folks have heard how England thrilled 
when that story wa3 known, and how the old 
German Emperor had the account read out on 
parade before every regiment in the German 
Army, as a tribute to what he called the 
" grande3t deed ever soldiers did ! " 

But the splendid old veteran in Berlin 
did not know the story of Alexander 
Cumine Eussell — the boy officer of seven- 
teen — in connection with it, or he would 
assuredly have had that read out separately, 
and Glenahnond would have become as 
famous in Germany as she is in this country. 

Delves Broughton. 


Eussell was ordered 
into one of the boats 
carrying the women 
and children, for 
the purpose of com- 
manding it, and he 
sat with dimmed 
eyes in the stern, 
some way off the 
doomed ship, watch- 
ing the forms of 
his beloved com- 
rades and fellows 
standing upright 
tht!re. He saw the 
ship go down, car- 
rying with it the 
hundreds of brave 
hearts. He saw 
those fearful crea- 
tures of the deep 
seizing their prey, 
and heard the 
screams of scores 
of human beings 
torn to pieces by 
sharks. Then, just when all for him was 
safe, when to him was given (with honour) 
life, ambition, and glory, he saw a sailor's 
form rise close to the boat and a hand strive 
to grasp the side. 

There was not room in the craft for a 
single person more without great risk of 
upsetting the boat. But as the sailor's face 
rose clear at the boat's side a woman in the 
craft called out in agony, " Save him ! Save 
him ! He is my husband ! " 

No room in that boat for one more ! But 
Eussell looked at that woman, then at her 
children, then at that sailor struggling 
in the waves, with his eyes beseeching help, 
then at the dreaded sharks feasting on every 
hand. Alexander Cumine Eussell rose in the 
stern of the boat. With a bold plunge he 
jumped clear of it and helped that sailor 
into what had been his own place — and 
safety. Then, amidst a chorus of " God bless 
you ! " from every soul in the boat, the young 
officer— a lad of seventeen, mind !— turned 
round to meet his death. And those in the 
boat shut their eyes and prayed. When they 
opened them again Alexander Cumine Eussell 
was nowhere to be seen ! 

But on that day when the sea gives 
up its dead there will be no nobler hero 
yielded up than the brave boy of Glen- 
almond School to whose memory that marble 
tablet (here shown in a photograph taken 
specially by a boy in the school for this 



article) was put up and unveiled 
some short time ago. 

Although, strictly speaking, it 
is not considered one of our 
recognised " public schools," yet 
the Duke of York's School, at 
Chelsea, is practically the " Public 
School of the Army." There- 
fore it may not be out of place 
to conclude this article by re- 
minding the reader that there 
was unveiled at this school, only 
a short time ago, a charming 
window of stained glass as a 
memorial to " old boys " of the 
school wdio had fallen in battle, 
The ceremony was appropriately 
enough undertaken by the aged- 
Duke of Cambridge, whose in- 
terest in the school has never 
flagged. The window cost nearly 
£800, and has a representation 
of the Crucifixion, with figures 
of the figliting saints. Saint 
Michael and Saint George, at the 

Below it, on an alabaster tablet, 
are inscribed the names of all 
scholars, since the founding of 
the school, who have lost their 
lives in battle. The record has 
been, made as complete as pos- 
sible, even including the name 
of one of the Lancers who was 
killed at Omdurman. 

Copyright plinlo by] 

[Glennlnioud Photographic Club. 

WAR, 1864. 

|-j«-,.; r,^ 



|'ww^fOER w A&EN AberdeenshweI 


l848 TO 1850 WHO AS AN 



February 26™ 1852 

MET a hero's death 

<«^^S^S-s^';-. ;.-§*s?- , 

Copyright photo by} 

[Glenalviond Photographic Club. 


And this me- 
morial, so well 
deserved, must 
undoubtedly help 
to form a connect- 
ing bond of no 
small value be- 
tween the train- 
ing-school of boys 
who will be the 
rank and file of 
our future Army, 
and the schools 
where those youths 
are trained who 
will, as a rule, 
become their 

During the 
present Boer war 
we have seen more 
than ever what 
the grand officers 




turned out from our public schools can do of the fine youug officers who have made 
wheu ligliting for Britain. We have Roberts the names of the Dublin Fusiliers and 
and BuUer from Eton, we have Baden- the Connaught Rangers veritable household 
Powell from W'ords for 

»r* ,' .■?=?" 

"^ V- :, Bifntfttant KingjS Rcnal BiSr Cmp 
Hmmpd 0m of pprtfrirb anil ijtitii^a m 
finrai5*i OftobfF i56i.Mllfti at thr baWlrof Ifegi 
giOBi jiftifa. ]3*i Ffiruarji issi.mfiUf rai?F|intt watrr 
to a TBomtiri) man of W compani Duk f a hfaaii firf. 


the Char- 
we have 
from Fettes 
and Loretto, 
from old 
I r e Ian d's 
famous col- 
leges, from 
every noted 
E n g 1 i s li 

Harold Paton, who will be remembered as 
having died gallantly at Mafeking on the 
night of the celebrated sortie, was one of 
Baden-Po well's favourites, and came from 
Loretto, Scotland's noted school. And then 
Fettes, not to be outdone by her chief 
competitor for cricket and football honours, 
gave up for Britain's cause the well-known 
I). B. Mon^ypenny, whose career as a foot- 
ball player was at one time the most promising 
among the many brilliant young men that 
Scotland boasts as her athletic sons. It was 
Paardeberg that saw the end of the player 
of whom Fettes used to be so proud. 

And from Ireland's Raphoe and from 
Cork School there came more than one 



bravery and 
true Celtic 
dash. Not 
only English 
schools, or 
Scotch ones, 
but Irish 
places of 
too, will 
have a fine 
of memorials 
to their brave dead w^hen the present war is 
over. There Avill, no doubt, be a stirring-up 
of the old traditions of Londonderry and 
Belfast Colleges, of Waterford and Dublin 
Schools, such as there has not been, in a 
military sense, for a very long period. 

Nobly dead or nobly living, honoured are 
the names of those who, in the words of 
Mr. Newbolt's fine poem on Clifton Chapel, 
have learned — 

To set the Cause above renown, 

To love the game beyond the prize, 
To honour, while you strike him down, 

The foe that comes with fearless eyes. 
To count the life of battle good, 

And dear the land that gave you birth, * 
And dearer yet the brotherhood 

That binds the brave of all the earth. 

Photo by Newton i& Co.,1 {Meet Street, E.C, 




Illustrated hy A. Forestier. 

This story is related by Captain Alfred Hilliard, a young Englishman of c<msi<lerable means and m)od social 
position, who IS spending some time on the Continent with his friend Fordham. At Pan Hillijird became 
acquainted with a Colonel Lepeletier and promptly fell in love with his daughter. AVhen the Leneletiers returned 
to their home in Calais, Hilliard followed them ; but though he had every reason to believe that Al^cs Leneletier 
cared for him, his ofPer was positively declined by her father, no reason being assigned. At thei? house he met 
a man whom he had known, when a boy, as Robert Jeifery, but who was known as Sadi Martel to the French 
household. Jeifery, alias Martel, had deteriorated with years, and was now a man given to diink and 
thoroughly unscrupulous. He invited Hilliard to go with him and inspect some excavations, purporting- to he 
harbour works and coal borings, which were being carried on by the shore, and which he was superint^ndin^r 
Never for a moment suspecting any treachery, Hilliard accompanied him one afternoon to the scene of operations." 





steam siren, 
blasted for 
two full 
as we ap- 
proached the 
mouth of 
the cutting, 
sent to the 
about me a 
message of release ; and it being then six 
o'clock in the evening thej came pell-mell, 
from the heart of the earth before us as 
it seemed — some crowding in the ballast- 
trucks, some running, some clinging to the 
very buffers of the little engines, some going 
at their ease, as though labour were not 
distasteful to them. That which had been a 
pandemonium of order and method became 
in a few moments a deserted scene of enter- 
prise. None save the sentries guarded the 
mouth of the pit. Here and there, in the 
chasm below, flares began to burst up in 
garish yellow spirit flames ; but those who 
worked by their light were the chosen few, 
the more skilled artisans, the engineers. 
And as we plunged downward and still down- 
ward, the great buttressed wall ever raising 
itself higher above us — even the skilled were 
rarely passed. K tremulous silence prevailed 
in the pit. From the distance there came a 
sound as of the throbbing of some mighty 

* Copyright, 1 900, by Max Pemberton, in the United 
States of America. 

engine at work beneath the very sea toward 
which I knew we must be walking. But the 
man who led me downward had no desire to 
gratify my curiosity. Passing from the 
daylight to ^ this cavernous gloom, he had 
become taciturn, morose, strangely self- 

I followed at his heels as we went quickly 
ever down toward the sea. When at last 
the incline of the cutting ceased, and we came 
upon a level way, I could perceive four hnes 
of rails running up to platforms as for the 
terminus of a station ; and beyond them the 
narrow mouth of a tunnel which carried but 
two tracks, and seemed to be nothing else 
than a tube of steel thrust into the mud which 
here covers the chalk of the Channel bed. 
All the lines converged to the tunnel's 
mouth, but beyond was utter darkness. 
This was our journey's end, then. 

God knows that even then I dare not ask 
myself the meaning of the things I saw. 
When, without presage, there is revealed to 
us, as in the twinkling of an eye, the truth 
of some mystery which appeals alike to the 
more terrible phase of our imagination and 
to our fear, we are slow to reckon with that 
truth or to admit it. I set it down that I 
knew from the first instant of inspection the 
whole meaning of that which the French 
contemplated against my country — there, 
seven miles from Calais upon the Paris road. 
But to claim that I realised the moment of 
it, or would embrace the knowledge in my 
innermost mind, would be to boast a pre- 
science I have no title to. Excited if you 
will, driven to a curiosity which defies any 
measure, telling myself that I should never 




live again such an hour as this, I followed 
the man to the tunneFs month ; I watched 
him kindle a flare at another a workman 
hekl ; I heard his odd excL^mations, that 
racking langh which no other in all the 
world ever laughed so ill. If my life had 
been the stake I most go on. Curiosity 
drove me now as with a lash. I neither 
reasoned nor apologised, for a voice within 
me said. You shall see. 

Jeffery raised the flare and stood an instant 
at the very mouth of the tunnel. The 
waving, ugly light displayed a face hard-set 
as in some exciting memory. Again he 
looked at me as he had looked when I met 
him on the road to Paris. 

" Sonny, ever been in a tunnel before ? " 

" Once, a Metropolitan tunnel." 

" Nasty, eh ? " 

" Well, it wasn't pleasant." 

" Ah, i3ut you had the dry land above you 
there. You were never under the sea, I 
suppose ? " 

"Not farther than any decent swimmer 

" So ! Well take you deeper down than 
that. Come on, my boy. It does me good 
to hfear you." 

He entered the tunnel upon this and be- 
gan to walk very quickly, while I, wdien we 
had left the last of the daylight behind us, 
stumbled after him witli all a new comer's 
nngainliness. Such a glare as his torch cast 
showed me the polished rails of steel, the 
circular roof above ns already blackened by 
the smoke of engines ; but the track I 
scarcely saw, and tripped ofteu, to his 

" Miss your eyes, eh, Captain ? Well, 
you've got to pay your footing. Listen to 
the music — it's a train going home to tea. 
You'd better step iu here, my lad — we can't 
afford to waste your precious life like that. 
Do you know you're standing in what ought 
to be the four-foot-six, but isn't ? Come out 
of it, come out of it." 

He pulled me from the track to a manhole 
in the wall, and crouching there together we 
watched tlie engine go clattering by, all the 
roof of the tunnel incarnadined with the 
glowing iridescence of the crimson light, 
the very faces of the w^orkmen standing out 
white and clear in the gloAv which the torch 
cast upward. But tlie tunnel seemed shaken 
to its very marrow, and the quivering earth, 
which held the steel, appeared to live wliile the 
trucks rolled over it. Again, as often before, 
I realised the majesty of the engineer's 
life ; nevertheless, the greater question 

rang unceasingly in my ears, Why had I 
been seduced to this place ? What did the 
French Government want with a tunnel 
beneath the sea seven miles from Calais 
Harbour ? Heaven is my witness that I did 
not dare to answer myself — did not dare 
until many hours, nay, days were lived and 
I could doubt the truth no longer. 

We had come by tliis time a mile at the 
least, as I judged it, from the tunnel's 
mouth, and must be very near to the sea, if 
not actually beneath it. By here and there 
upon our w^ay we passed a soldier patrolling, 
lantern in hand, a section of the tunnel; 
and once, when we had gone on again a 
quarter of a mile, we found a great bricked 
shaft, at the foot of which men w^ere hauling 
sleepers and steel rails by the light of a coal 
fire and many flares set about it. The 
picture was rude and wild ; the faces of the 
men shaped pale and hard-set wdierever the 
light fell upon them ; the environing dark- 
ness, so complete, so unbroken, suggested 
the mouth of some vast, unfathomable pit ; 
whereunto all this. burden of steel and w^ood 
was cast ; wherefrom these shadowy figures 
had emerged to claim a due of the outer 
world. But the illusion was broken when 
Jeffery halted to exchange rapid words witli 
the men and to give them their directions. 
Again I observed the quick obedience, the 
respect he commanded. Of all that un- 
numbered army of w^orkers I had seen, he, 
indisputably, was General. And he knew his 

" Clever chaps, these Frenchies," he said, 
as he went on again. " Direct them plainly 
and they'll get there, though they've a lot 
to say about it on the road. That shaft 
was an idea of mine, which I'm proud 
of. We'll ventilate there by and by ; mean- 
while the Belgian barges can beach their 
rails and send them down to us. I save two 
days' labour in three, and that's lucky in a 
job like this. Are you beginning to wonder 
where the coal is ? " 

I answered him by a question. 

" Does the shaft come out on the beach, 
then ? " 

" Growing curious, eh ? Well, perhaps, 
we'll go up by it and see as we go back. 
Meanwhile, you and I must have a bit of a 
talk for the sake of auld lang syne. Sit 
down, siree, sit down. The plank's not 
exactly Waldorf-Astoria, but it's next door 
to it, seeing you're in a tunnel." 

We were then, I suppose, the third of a 
mile from the shaft he had spoken of. I 
knew that we were deep down below the bed 

"A harsh steam siren sent to the countless workmen about nie a message of release.' 



of the Channel ; and there was in the know- 
ledge a sense of awe and mystery, and some- 
thing beyond awe and mystery— it may be 
something akin to terror — which I realised 
then for the first time, but have lived through, 
waking and sleeping, many a day since that 
terrible hour. I w^as down below the sea 
in a tunnel that struck towards my own 
country. Above me wx^-e the rippling waves, 
the roiling ships, the flashing lights of the 
busie3t waterway 
i n t h e w r 1 d . 
What lay. beyond 
in the darkness, 
where the last 
girders of this tre- 
mendous high-road 
were to be seen, I 
knew no more than 
the dead. The 
grandeur of it, the 
mystery of it 
muted my tongue, 
fascinated me 
beyond all clear 
thought. The road 
hiy to England, to 
my home ; it could 
not point other- 
wise. And I, alone 
of Englishmen, had 
come to a know- 
ledge of the 

Jeffery, I say, 
set his flare in a 
crevice of the track 
and made a rude 
seat of a couple of 
boards and a bench 
which here stood 
in the six-foot way. 
Work had been 
progressing at this 
place before the 
siren was blown, I 
imagined, and the 
tools of the men — 
jacks, drills, heavy 
hammers— lay about as a testimony to French 
confusion. My guide pointed to them with 
an ironical finger, and, kicking a hammer 
from the track, made another bench similar 
to his own for me. 

"Look," he said ; "that's your Frenchman's 
love of order. If a ticket were needed for 
the Day of Judgment, he'd go aloft without 
it. Sit down. Milliard, and watch me drink 
a sup of whisky." 

He seated himself on the bench and took a 
long pull from an old black flask, which he 
passed to me when he had done with it. 
My refusal to drink seemed to annoy him. 
It was an excuse the less for his own 

" Well," he snapped, " you know best. 
But you'll get little drink where you're going 
to. Here's luck on the road." 

I rested my arms on my knees and looked 

him as full in the face as the guttering light 
permitted me. 

" What do you mean by that, Jeffery ? " 
He laughed to himself, a soft, purring 
laugh that meant all the mischief he could 

" Hark ! " he said, raising his hand for 
silence ; " do you hear the old girl throb- 
bing ? That's my shield — my own. There's 
some in Europe who would pay a penny or 



two if I'd make ^em another like it. But I'll 
wait till this job's through. Eh ? sonny, 
wouldn't you ? " 

I did not answer him, but listened to the 
pulsing machine which, at some great distance 
from us, as I knew it must be, thrust 
its steel tongue into the soft chalk of the 
Channel's bed, and cast tons of the earth 
behind it, as though to make a burrow for 
a mighty, human animal whicli thus would 
cheat the seas. The tube of steel- in which 
we had walked quivered at every thrust of the 
engine. Nevertheless, I know that the work 
was far away ; for 1 could hear no voices, 
could not even see the twinkling lamps of 
those who gave life to the tongue and con- 
trolled it. The very sense of distance 
appalled and fascinated in an appeal to the 
imagination surpassing any I had known. 

" JefPery," I said, asldng him a plain 
question for the first time, " why did you 
bring me here ? " 

'' He answered me as plainly, " To still 
your tongue for ever." 

The words (and never a man heard 
six words which meant more) were spoken 
in that half -mocking, half -serious key which 
characterised the man. To this hour I 
can see him squatting there upon the 
wooden bench, his sallow face made sardonic 
in the aureole of dirty light, his thin, nervous 
fingers interlaced, his deep-set eyes avoiding 
mine, but seeking, nevertheless, to watch 
me. And he had trapped me ! My God ! 
I tremble now when the pen recalls that 
houi' ! He had trapped me, brought me to 
that place because he believed that I had his 
secret, the secret which France had kept so 
well from all the world. 

Fool ! thrice fool I was to follow him. As 
one blind I had stumbled on to the mouth of 
the abyss ; and now I could see the depths, 
could, in imagination, reel back from 
them appalled. He had trapped me ! 

He uttered the threat, I say, but almost 
in the same breath began to question me as 
though the thing had never been spoken. 
While twenty ideas sprang at once to my 
mind, while the peril quickened my heart 
and brouglit drops of sweat to my face, 
he pursued his purpose of interrogation 
relentlessly. For all that I knew he had 
brought me to the place that I might carry 
from it to a French prison the knowledge of 
that which France wrought against my own 
country. Every word he spoke recalled to 
me the ramparts we had passed, the patrols 
upon the cliffs, the great locked door, the 
walls which shut in this secret from the world. 

No prisoner was ever caged more surely. 
Even at that moment of it I said that the 
last day of my liberty might have been li\'ed. 
The words which the man spoke were as 
drums beating in my ears. 

'*So you came to Calais to make love, 
sonny, and the little French girl was to help 
you, eh ? You hocus-pocussed the old man 
and dished him up with banknote sauce, eh ? 
You weren't at all anxious about the works— 
oh, no, not at all, and you didn't want to 
come here. Poor little lambs and sheep ! 
How I do like to see them out to grass ! Say, 
boy, have a cigarette ? You won't get 'em m 
the fortress." 

I took the cigarette and wondered at the 
steady hand which lighted it. My very 
liberty hung upon a thread ; I had the wit 
at least not to break the thread. 

" Isn't it about time we dropped this ? " I 
said at last. '' You know perfectly weU why 
I came to Calais ? " 

"As true as the levels of this floor, my 
son. You came to Calais to make love -to 
the harbour w^orks. Do you suppose I'm a 
chump, like Lepeletier ? " 

" Lepeletier is a gentleman." 

" Oh, stick up for your friends. He'd 
have played a good hand for you, siree, he 
and the other bit of goods. But I weighed 
in before them, you see. And just in time, 
by ! " 

He had told me in a sentence why 
Lepeletier had asked me to leave Calais. 
This man had threatened to denounce his 
friendship for a spy. And Agnes ? But of 
her I would not think. 

" Well," I said quietly, " you make a good 
story of it. The other side's to come. Take 
my word as a soldier and a gentleman that 
I knew nothing whatever of this business 
until you brouglit me here to-night. It's 
your own fault that I have not gone back to 
England as wise as I came. And what's the 
offence ? That I followed your lead ? If 
it's no more, you won't persuade our people 
to keep their fingers out of this pie." 

The idea amused him vastly. 

" Your people ^ — club dandies and Fall 
Mall fools, paid a thousand a year to 
say nothing and do as much ! Man, you 
know them better. By the time they've cut 
the red tape off your packet, you will be 
forgotten on the Healthy Isles, and this 
work will be where all the world may come 
and see it. I'm living for that day. There 
are some on your side I want to clean a slate 
for. Your slate's washed, or will be when 
I've done with you. The others may wait, 



that swine .Hardy among tlie number. He 
called me a black man, the dirty toad ! " 

The reminiscence of the old days at 
Woolwich found him in a more dangerous 
mood. Temper began to master him. The 
outstanding veins upon his forehead and his 
hands swelled horribly. He threw the 
cigarette he had been smoking to the ground 
and crushed it with his heel. Men speak of 
a " glittering eye " ; I knew what the ex- 
pression meant before he had done with me. 

" I'll settle with Hardy, and wring his 
cursed neck, or he shall wring mine," he 
continded, with growing anger ; " that'll be 
pretty naws to go out to you at Cayenne, 
sonny. By Gosh ! I hope you like hot 
climates. YouMl want some summer clothes 
where you're gohig to." 

I heard him with what indifference I 
could affect. There was not an instant now 
when I did nob tell myself that, if I wished 
to see my own country again, I must act then, 
at the beginning of it, or remain impassive 
to the end. He had trapped me, but a cool 
head might discover a rent in the meshes of 
his net. England seemed far away — out 
beyond the lights of the Channel and the 
ramparts we had passed. 

"Let's have done with it, once and for 
all," I said at last ; " has there not been 
enough of this rot ? Just show me the way 
to my car, or Bell, my man, will have a fever. 
You don't suppose I'm going to take you 

The taunt was as coal upon the fire of it. 

" Why did you come here to spy ont my 
w^ork ? " he asked. " Was it any business of 
yours ? Are you an Intelligence man, or the 
dandy you pretend to be ? Am I never to 
build a house but Bome English fool must 
come along and spoil it ? Don't lie to me — 
lie to those wlio're waiting for you when I 
give the word. You're playing double, and 
you know it." 

.He stood clenching his hands and facing 
me in an outburst of anger wliich was pitiful 
to see. A single cry of liis would have 
brought a sentry to the place ; one word 
might have nent me to the prisons of France. 
That much I remembered in spite of the hot 
b!jod of my race. 

" If you will be reasonable for five minutes, 
I will show you how I pky double," said I ; 
'• but it can't be done here. Come back to 
my liotel and search my luggage. You aie 
not prepared to take my word ; let your eyes 
convince you. I came to Calais because Lepe- 
letier was here. A little reflection would 
make the rest clear to you. Is it not rather 

absurd to make accusations which you cannot 
support, and which you know to be false ? Do 
me the justice to remember what you knew 
of me at Webb's. Is a man with my means 
likely to come here prying about your 
affairs ? You know that he is not. Let us 
go up and talk it over. We shan't get any 
farther in this place." 

The suggestion amused him. He snarled 
an ironic answer. 

" No, I.guess not, Alfred Plilliard. You've 
gone as far tow^ards Northamptonshire as 
you'ie likely to go for many a day. My ! 
you make a good story of it ! I'm a bit of a 
liar myself, and I recognise the breed." 

Now, I have said that I come of a race 
Avhich was never known at any time for a 
well-controlled temper. My mother is of 
Irish birth ; my forefathers were fox-hunters 
and soldiers, jealous in honour, sudden and 
(juick in quarrel. There was never one of 
them tliat counted his life at tlie value of a 
pill's point if honour thereby w^ere imperilled. 
And all the world had said that as the fa'jhers 
were, so the son. Until this man called me 
a liar I had kept my temper under what 
control I could ; had feinted when he 
engaged ; had laughed, jested, been serious 
or flippant, as his mood was. But the mask 
of prudence fell at a word. Had all the 
sentries in Calais been there to hear us, I 
should have acted as I did upon that spur of 
temper and of honour. 

" You talk like a fool ! " I exclaimed, 
holding myself back with an effort which 
cost me much. " If I thought you meant a 
word of it I would answer you differently." 

Hj took- a step towards me and raised a 
clenched list to my face. His eyes were 
liloodshot, but lighted by a drunken anger 
Avhich defied his last attempt at self-control. 

'• Liar ! " he cried ; " liar, as you always 
were — that's what I mean to say." 

And that was the end of it, for the words 
had scarcely passetl liis lips when I struck 
him twice, and he fell at my feet, white and 
senseless, across the verv track he had built. 



We awake from anger as from sleep, and in 
the clearer light of reason judge ourselves. 
While the man stood before me, while his 
taunts were so many lashe3 of a whip upon 
my honour, temper and the frenzy of temper 
blinded me. But I awoke from the stupor 
as suddenly as it had come upon me. My 



" Twenty paces beyond the orifice a sentry stood gazing out over tbe angry seas of the Channel." 

daylight was tlie garish flame of the guttering 
torch. Night was beyond in the utter dark- 
ness of the mystery with which, even then, my 
awaking imagination conld not cope. 

I had struck the man with all my strength, 
and Nature has given me a full measure of 
that ; nevertheless, when he fell senseless be- 

fore me, some moments passed before I could 
remember how I came to strike hini, or why 
we were in that place. Slowly, link by link, 
I completed the chain of memory. He had 
brought me there upon a pretext. He had 
wished, as I came to see in those saner 
moments, to prove for himself my knowledge 



of that which France had planned below the 
sea at Escalles. His suspicion being aroused, 
he had determined thus to shut my moubli 
for ever. And, in my turn, I had killed him. 
God knows I could even beheve it was that 
— so still he lay, so white, so pulseless. 

They say that in the moments of our 
greatest peril we often act with an odd 
presence of mind and a method which less 
exacting hours could not surpass. Be this 
as it nijiy, I do not see, looking back to that 
night, that if another had struck the man 
down, I, a passer by, could have done more 
than I did. For my first act was to stoop 
and to drag him from the rails. Quietly ^ 
I remember, and methodically, 1 picked 
up our mackintoshes and our peaked hats, 
which w^e had cast off because of the 
stifling air of the tunnel. No doctor staniing 
at a bedside could have fingered a pulse more 
leisurely or with more patience. But his 
pulse was still. I thought that I had killed 
him, and a shudder, such as I pray I may 
never know again, fell upon my limb 5 and 
sent me giddy and reeling in the darkness. 

I record it that I thought he wa3 dead, 
and for a little wdiile I stood there, held 
dumb and terror-stricken with the horror of 
it, and yet unready to admit tlie truth. When 
ten seconds, perhaps, were numbered, the 
dreadful fear passed as a shadow. The body 
at my feet quivered suddenly in a nervous 
convulsion, the fingers of the hands were 
opened and shut, but clenched no more ; a 
groan escaped the man's lips. No music 
that ever was written could have been sweeter 
music to me than that cry of life returning. 
I had been a fool to think him dead, I said= 
Many a man had I seen go down to sucli a 
blow as mine, and yet be walking with his 
friends before another pair had boxed their 
rounds. As they fell, so had Jeffery fallen. 
The knowledge sent me back upon myself, 
I thought of my own case— of the sea above 
me, and the ramparts I must pass, and the 
ligiits of England beyond them. For aught 
that I knew, ten seconds might turn the 
scale of my liberty. A distant sound in the 
tunnel, as of a train approaching, sent me to 
my feet with the leap of a liare startled from 
sleep. The man lived. He had but to cry 
out once, and twenty would answer him. I 
said that Destiny had willed this moment of 
respite, and, Avitii all my nerve set upon that 
desperate hope, I turned to the darkness and 
ran headlong— I knew not whither, save that 
it was toward the land, away from the pit 
and the intolerable fear of it. 

It was, at the first of it, at least, a flight 

of panic, and so much I do not seek to 
disguise. Judge my case and do me justice. 
For who would have guarded an obedient 
wdll in the face of all that I had seen and 
heard during one short hour ? Recall the 
scenes one by one as they came before me 
to appal my mind and paralyse my imagina- 
tion. To-day I know that those phantoms 
were no phantoms, but truths, momentous 
to my country, written there in the darkness 
for one of the least of her servants to read. 
But then I knew them not at all. More 
than once 1 could ask myself if I were 
not the victim of some great jest, of 
Jeffery's drunken humour — if, indeed, I 
had not visited but a coal-shaft, a shaft 
thrust far out under the sea to workings 
there planned by engineers. A truer voice 
of intuition forbade so simple an account of 
it. Always in my ears were the words, 
" You, you are the chosen, yours is the lot, 
by you shall men know." Belief in a 
mission sent by God, and not of my own 
asking, was, I hold, the guiding impulse of 
nnich that I did that night. I, an obscure 
officer of Hussars, had robbed France of her 
secret. I hugged it as a precious possession. 
Come what might, I would seek to do my 

And so I ran from the garish light, away 
from the body lying there by the tunnel's 
wall, away upon as desperate a hope as ever 
carried a man to danger. Panic at the 
beginning of it sent me on blindly, almost 
helplessly. Once I fell my length across the 
rails, and lay, while a man might have 
counted twenty, dizzy and breathless. The 
thunder of the approaching train passed from 
a mere suggestion of sound to the roar ai of 
an avalanche. Would those who guided it 
find Jeffery and hear his story ? So did the 
thought play upon my nerves that 1 stood 
still when I saw the engine's light, and 
watched it approach tliat place upon the 
unused track where the flare was lifted. Had 
those upon the train seen the body ? Yes ! 
No ! 1 said that they were stopping, coming 
on. My heart beat quick, faltered, pulsed 
throbbingly. It was beyond bearing. At 
last I sank to the ground and did not dare 
to look. The danger was passed, then ? 
Again my Destiny said " Yes." 

The train thundered by, and none of those 
upon it perceived the man who crouched lew 
to the track and held his breath to count 
the seconds of suspense. A great glow of 
crimson light, bursti?ig upward from the 
furnace, was cast down again by the steel 
roof to show^ me the faces of the last of the 



workmen cis they were carried swiftly to their 
homes and to the light. I saw that they were 
faces intelliofent above the common — faces 
which the dignity of labour had ennobled, 
upon which a seal of manliood had been set. 
These were no mere ser\'ants of the s^an^er's 

' lie fired his rifle tliree times in the air." 

troop or gathered idlers from the villages, 
but men unmistakably selected for the more 
honourable posts — the chosen, it might be, 
for this tremendous task, the sharers of the 
secret which France had guarded so well. 
The lesson which their example taught me 
was quickly learned. From that moment I 

ceased to stumble headlong through the 
tunnel, but went on, erect and thinking. 
As they were called, so might I be. 

It was intensely dark when the engine 
had passed, and I could see that star of 
crimson light which the furnace cast upward, 
diminishing in 
lustre minute by 
minute, until it 
became but a speck 
upon the roof, and 
at last had van- 
ished altogether in 
the utter blackness 
of distance. The 
thunder of wheels 
had now become 
but a trembling 
of the tube about 
me, and that 
ceased at last and 
the nadir of silence 
was touched. 
Every drop of 
water that dripped 
to the floor was a 
great sound above 
that stillness. A 
quickened imagin- 
ation so deceived 
me that I thought 
to hear the sea 
rolling upon its 
bed of shingle 
above my head, 
and believed that 
I could distinguish 
the melancholy 
cry of the wind 
and the beat of the 
waves. From time 
to time I stood to 
listen for the 
sound of steps or 
the echoes of a 
voice — but heard 
nothing. The dis- 
tant engine, far 
away below the 
Channel's bed, 
had ceased to 
throb. I stood 
alone, but never farther from my liberty. 

A fooFs hopes, a driven man's desire — 
these sent me on. Behind me lay the man 
who had brought me to the trap ; before me 
were the ramparts and the sentries and the 
prisons of France. I knew that I could not 
pass the ramparts ; nevertheless, I went on. 



Courage of a sort made my step more sure. 
I was ashamed of nothing, did not fear any 
man's story, was wilUng to tell my tale to 
all the world. Nevertheless, I understood 
from the first that I must seek to tell it in 
England, and not in France. For what 
meed of justice might I look for at the 
hands of those who guarded this insurpassable 
secret ? They would silence me at any cost. 
My life would not be worth a grain of sand 
against the tremendous purpose which bad dic- 
tated this endeavour. They would risk any accu- 
sation, any crime, to stamp out this accident 
of Destiny whereby one, wdio least deserved 
to know% had come to the possession of full 
knowledge. And T, in turn, must call upon 
every gift that Heaven had given me that 
I might proclaim tbe truth. An excitement 
of the purpose sent me on again with beating 
heart toward the ramparts and the light. 

I was alone in the tunnel, I say, and I 
knew that the 
great air-shaft 
we had passed 
in our journey 
must now be 
very near the 

place where I 

stood. A great 

sense of relief 

came to me of 

the assurance 

that the sea no 

longer beat 

above my head. 

There would be 

air at least from 

this point on- 
ward, and a 

glimpse of the 

sky above me. 

Bo great was the 

expectation of 

it that I ran on 

quickly, saying 

that 1 would 

tell tlie sentries 

this or that, or 

w^ould avoid 

them by scaling 

the wail of the 

enclosure, or 

would demand 

to be sent to 

Colonel licpele- 

tier himself. 

True it was that 

a vision of a 

face came to 

me for an instimt, as some memory of happi- 
ness past, of an old state of life lost for ever. 
Never more would Agnes and I meet as we 
had met. This barrier of the mystery lay 
between us as a gulf no merely selfish impulse 
might bridge. A heavy burden of my Destiny 
lay upon me then. I did not dare to think 
of it. liights and the voices of men called 
me back from the dreamland to the tunnel. 
1 was alone no longer. 

It is a rare experience to stand in doubt 
and fear and to await the approach uf those 
in whose hands our fate is. When first I 
saw the lanterns and heard the voices, I was 
without plan, or word, or intention. Whoever 
they w^ere, these patrols had entered the tunnel 
from the shaft I approached so expectantly ; 
their lanterns struck a sudden glow on the 
blackness, and where all had been intensely 
dark, ten seconds ago, there was now the 
glimmer of a candle's light. By this already 

I could dis- 
t i n g u i s h the 
shadows of 
three, and I 
knew that they 
must pass me, 
nuist see me, 
could not fail, 
it might be, to 
challenge me. 
Nevertheless, I 
had no plan in 
my mind, no 
thought of it, 
but stood there 
as one resource - 
less and beaten. 
This, and this 
only, could be 
the outcome of 
m y flight. 
Challenge, dis- 
covery, arrest. 
I repeated the 
words as the 
men drew^ near. 
Then, as upon 
an impulse, 1 
drew my cape 
a bout my 
shoulders and 
walked straight 
tow^ard them, 
by them, past 
them toward 
the shaft and 
the tunnel's* 

'I set my face toward Calais and ran a race such as it is given 
few to run." 



^^ Monsieur Martel^ Monsiem^ 3IarteI, ou 
est Jourdain ? " 

I halted at the words, spoken in provincial 
French, but did not turn toward the speaker, 
the shortest of the three and the one who 
carried the wavering lantern. Why had he 
called me Martel ? Had the darkness 
deceived him, then ? Inconceivable decep- 
tion ! And yet he called me Martel. 

" // est la has,'' 1 said, distinctly, again 
upon the impulse. And what folly, for who 
could not distinguish the voices ? Bat, 
miracle 'of words, the three cried "" Merci^' 
and passed on. 

They would find Jeffery's body in ten 
minutes, I said. And they had called me 

They had called me Martel and let me 
pass. Well, in the darkness it was not 
inconceivable, after all. Jeffery's hair w^as 
black — so w^as mine. I had the advantage 
of him in inches, but I stooped, perchance, 
when they passed by. He spoke French with 
sufficient accent ; I spoke it as at Stratford - 
atte-Bowe, yet with enougli of grammar to 
suffice. And our clothes ? We were both 
wearing mackintoshes and peaked caps. 
Abstractedly I felt about my cap fco verify 
the assumption. But my liand touched a 
gold shield as it fingered tlie rim™ and then 
I knew. In the darkness I liad picked up 
Jeft'ery's cap ; my own lay yonder, where the 
patrol would find it presently. I laughed 
ironically at the thought. 

This httle thing, this unguided act, had 
saved me from the men. But, was it " un- 
guided," or did the hand of Destiny direct 
my own ? I could not answer. 

The man's hat was on my head, sure 
enough ; I wore a black cape such as he had 
worn ; the darkness and the circumstance of 
the place served for the rest. And do you 
wonder that many wild schemes leaped to 
my brain as it dwelt upon this fortuitous 
rencontre ? If the patrol passed me in the 
tunnel, why should I not pass the sentry at 
the gate ? True, there would be the light of 
arc lamps there — for often had they shone 
dow^n upon me as I returned, belated, to 
Calais upon my motor. There would be arc 
lights and the patrol of the enclosure, and 
the guardians of the inner ward and tlie 
guardians of the outer. My plot ebbed 
away as a burn in the sand. A miracle 
alone could open the great gate to me, I 
said. And these are not the days of 

So behold me again racked with the 
doubt of it. At every step I took now my 

ears were bent for any sound that should 
speak of Jeffery's recovery, or of the alarm 
that must succeed the finding of his body. 
The men must have come to the place by 
this time — must, must, I argued. Nerves 
that w^ould respond to every sound made new 
phantoms for me in the recesses of the tunnel. 
I thought often to hear the cries of pursuit 
and of discovery. When (and this is as 
surprising as any change wrought in a theatre) 
a great flood of light suddenly shone out 
about me, the fear of it chilled my very 
heart. Good Heavens ! that I should set it 
down ! It was nothing but the lighting of 
the tunnel, the w^hite and radiating glow of 
the arc lamps, w^hich, I imagined, were 
lighted thus after sunset every day of the 
year. And now they shone in countless 
globes of the blue-w^hite iridescence — far 
away, until they were but stars beneath the 
depths of the sea. I caught my breath again 
and went on. There were men in the dis- 
tance, but their backs w'ere toward me. And 
I was at the very foot of the shaft I sought. 
The clear light showed it plainly — a great 
bricked chimney, shooting upward to the air 
and the life above. Could I but mount 
there, liow easy it would be to escape the 
ordeal of the gate ! Aye, if— if, the eternal 
if ! And what of the sentry at the shaft's 
head ? It was a hundred to one that such a 
danger spot would not go unwatched. I 
admitted the truth with indifference. The 
three had called me Martel. 

A great arc lamp made day in the shaft 
and showed its layers of blue bricks as clearly 
as in the sunlight. I espied no ladder there, 
but a pulley rope hung loose, and I remem- 
bered as I stood that 1 had gone to the mast- 
head many a time upon my schooner yacht, 
and thought no more of it than any gym- 
nastic trick which good muscles and the right 
use of them make possible. To fix the loose 
rope to one of the heavy sleepers lying there 
was the work of a moment. After ail, what 
was it jO grasp at this way of the rope— what 
was it, when any minute I nn'ght hear the 
alarm from the tunnel, when discovery 
walked cheek by jowl with me at every step 
I took ? Let me claim nothing of the attempt. 
I would have risked my life twenty times to 
escape the dread cf that pit. And here was 
a means to my hand. When next I thought 
of it I had climbed twenty feet and could 
see the stars far above me. Oli ! how the 
freshening air blew sweet upon my face ! 
Upward and upward toward my liberty. Did 
they cry after me in the tunnel below ? 
Once I thought so, and dung nervelessly to 



the rope, while it swayed from side to side, 
and I had time to remember that a failing 
nerve might send me headlong back into the 
pit. Anon it seemed to me that no one 
cried out, and that the voice was but the 
ripple of the sea on the beach above me. 
Again my courage came back, as upon a 
freshet of hope. Though my untrained 
hands were bleeding, and my knees barked 
by the bricks, I went up, up, slowly, surely ; 
and at every hand-pull now the face of the 
sentry above came nearer. Fear showed me 
the figure of a man gaping down at me as I 
climbed. I looked the second time and saw 
but the stars. There was the blue of the 
early night still in the sky. The phantom 
figure appeared no more. I was but two 
feet from the orifice. 

Slowly now, and with every faculty 
quickened, I cUmbed that space intervening. 
Yonder, above the cap of bricks and the 
circular month, I should find the sentry, 
should be challenged, questioned, arrested. 
No other hope seemed possible. And yet 
men had called me Martel. They were those 
who had passed me in the tunnel to hear 
Jeifery's story and to raise the alarm. Aye, 
in truth, I thought to hear the voices again, 
there, at the vital moment of it all. Low 
at first as a sonorous wdiisper from the tunnel, 
the note gained strength and volume, became 
an unmistakable cry, w^as not to be set down 
any longer to imagination or to fear. 

The three had found Jeifery, the alarm 
was raised ! 

I said as much, and leaped from the shaft's 
mouth, desperately, to the grass of the cliff. 
Twenty paces beyond the orifice a sentry 
stood gazing out over the angry seas of tlie 
Channel. But he did not challenge me, and 
I lay upon the grass as one dead, counting 
the minutes until he would hear the voices. 



I HAD always assumed that the shaft was 
nothing but a ventilator thrusting itself up 
to the cliff's head as near as might be to the 
sea. As I lay upon the gi'ound, waiting for 
the sentry to hear the alarm, a quick survey 
made my environment clear to me. I was 
thirty paces from the seashore, perhaps, 
three miles, it might be, from my man and my 
car. The low chalk cliffs here fell away, to 
show me the wet beach by the Cape they call 
Blanc-Nez, and the long line of white waves 
which marked the ebbing tide. A heavy 

rampart of stone defended the shaft on the 
seaward side, and was now patrolled by the 
sentry I must pass. I w^as &till in the third 
or last of the enclosures, and the cutting by 
which the tunnel was gained lay far behind 
me — a mile, perhaps two, for my sense of 
locality is poor. But here, as in-shore, I 
perceived that a close patrol shut the works 
to strangers. Lanterns danced at changing 
points upon the outer wall. I could hear the 
voices of other sentries challenging other 
passers by. The man who stood twenty paces 
from the shaft had kept his eyes towards the 
sea and the empty beach below us. It would be 
odd, I said, to watch him wdien he heard the 
alarm. Yet that he must do, for those below 
were crying loudly now. He would hear 
them Avhen five seconds had passed^or ten. 

A great litter of lumber lay about the 
orifice, and I have often said that I owe my 
life to it. From the moment when breath 
came back to me, and with breath the new 
courage of the freshness and the exciting sea 
breeze (for it had ceased to rain now, and 
there was a wonderful night of stars, as poor 
Stevenson has put it so finely), I espied the 
stacks of timber, the heavy steel girders, the 
earth in heaps, the overplus of labour. Upon 
my hands and knees, yai'd by yard, in as odd 
a situation as man ever found himself, I 
crawled to the shelter of a huge girder ; and 
through the interstices of the latticed metal 
I watched the sentry. He heard them nt)w — 
he must hear them. The wail of the wind 
rose and fell incessantly, but for me the 
sound of voices in the pit prevailed above 
it. What would the fellow do when the - 
alarm was raised ? I asked myself. How 
deaf he was ! Twice he walked to the 
buttress of the rampart, twice he returned. 
He would never hear, then ; it was all my 
imagination, the voice was the voice of the 
night, not of men. 

Suspense, they say, is the enemy of time, 
making hours of minutes and years of days. 
Until that night of nights I had known little 
suspense in my life, and the truth was new 
to me. But I learned the lesson in the 
moments that followed upon my flight, learned 
it so well that if I lived a hundred years 1 
might not forget it. Looking back to that 
hour to-day, I can admit that no more than 
fiYQ mimites passed between my leap from 
the shaft's mouth and the loud note of alarm 
upon the cliff about me. But each of those 
minutes was to me an hour of waiting. So 
unendurable did the doubt become, that 
when the sentry heard the voices at last, T 
verily believe I wished that he should hear 



them. Now, at last, the glove was thrown 
down. Now, if ever, I must play for mj 
liberty as I had never played before, nor 
might look to play again. 

He heard the cry at his second turn upon 
the rampart, and for an instant stood as one 
under a spell. Then, bawling with all his 
lungs to another who patrolled the cliff west- 
ward towards Gris-Nez, he ran to the shaft- 
head and answered those who were clamour- 
ing below. Under other circumstances I 
should have laughed at the very Babel which 
arose. Gesticulating, though none could see, 
now running a little way to the sea, now" back 
again to the shaft, at last one clear idea 
possessed the man,. and he fired his rifle three 
times in the air and set off as one possessed, 
in -shore, toward the great gate and the Paris 
road. I watched him as though a great 
weight were carried by him from my own 
shoulders. For, running, he left the way to 
the sea open, and by the sea should the gate 
of my liberty be found. 

It was a great hope, and it sent me from 
my hiding-place with a better courage and a 
clearer head than I had known from the 
beginning of it. Providence alone, I said, 
had compelled the sentry thus to take the one 
road which would serve me best. True, the 
rampart defending the works, the rampart 
shaped like a fort at the cliff's head, had yet 
to be crossed, and a way found to the beach 
below. But had not Jeffery spoken of Belgian 
barges coming upon the tide to discharge their 
cargoes there ? and how could they discharge 
them if there were no connecting link between 
the sands and the heights ? All my common 
sense helped me to confidence. There would 
be a ladder, a scaffold there. 

Without it the work could not go on. As 
a hunted man, I ran to and fro upon the 
rampart, seeking the ladder upon whose rungs 
freedom was to be won. Reason could not 
lie, I argued. There was a ladder, if I could 
but espy it. And then, in the dark, I 
blundered upon it, went over the parapet 
almost in my impatience. My instinct was a 
true one. There was a ladder, and luck went 
down it with me, even then, at the crisis of 
pursuit. The sentry's rifle had been answered 
by others, some near, some far away, almost in 
the outer workings. I heard a bell ringing 
and the shriller blast of whistles and the cry- 
ing of men to men ; but I was down upon 
the sea-beach then, and the lights of the pass- 
ing ships, even the splendid rays of the Fore- 
land, were my beacons. Had the tide been in 
that night, God knows what the end would 
have been, But it was at its very ebb. Thq 

white line of the crested seas advanced and 
fell at least a quarter of a mile from the out- 
spurs of the cliffs. Not a living soul was down 
there upon the dark sands at such an hour. 
Stumbling (cursing if you will), now at the 
zenith of hope, now despairing again, I set 
my face toward Calais and ran a race such as 
it is given few to run. The stake was liberty ; 
the consequences of capture — well, I tried to 
forget those. 

Silence, such a silence as I could well 
account for, fell upon the works behind me 
as I drew toward the higher cliffs which mark 
Blanc-Nez. Those who had raised the alarm, 
I said, were now busy upon a hue and cry 
which would be the talk of all Calais to- 
morrow. It amused me to imagine the 
troopers scouring the high roads, to follow in 
imagination those who listened to Jeffery in 
the tunnel and searched every yard of it again 
and once again. Would they look shoreward 
or toward the sea, I asked myself ? Would 
they follow the tunnel to its end ? and, if they 
did so, to what point below the sea would 
such a journey carry them ? Was it to be 
believed that the unseen engine, which day 
and night thrust its mighty antennas deep 
down below the fretful Channel, stood already 
far out toward the English shore ? Such a 
thing might be, I reasoned. No reader of 
these lines could share the conflicting 
emotions of that argument. I saw, in the 
pictures of my mind, the witness to an 
ambition more subtle, more dangerous, surely, 
than any with which a nation has occupied 
itself. I saw, as in a vision, the depths of 
that pit filled with armed men, whose foot- 
steps were muted by the angry seas, whose 
hopes, whose arnr^, were turned toward my 
own country. The dream of one who had 
been frightened by a jest, yon say ? I tried 
to think so as I raced for my life that night 
toward Blanc-Nez and the open country 
beyond. I tried to say, " Fool, fool ! face 
it out ; have done with it." And yet I went 
on at all my speed. I did not know then 
why I went ; but the instinct of flight was 
sure, irresistible. I must get back to England, 
nothing must intervene. 

There is a gap in the cliff beyond Cap 
Blanc-Nez, a gap and a bridle-path leading 
upward to the pastures of a farmhouse 
there. When I came to the gap (such a one 
as you may see at Dumpton, in Thanet), I 
stood, breathless yet alert, to reflect upon 
my situation. Did I follow the beach 
further, I should find myself presently amid 
those sand-hills which are the dreary 
ramparts of Calais upon its west^ri^ vSidQ— a 



desert land abounding in djkes and canals 
and marshy swamps. Those dykes no man 
could pass, or, passing, could not escape 
observation in the intricate paths beyond. 
All my argument sent me to the upland of 
the cliff and the open fields, wherein, at least, 
there would be many a hiding-place, many a 
befriending hedge. By whatever gate I 
entered Calais, it must not be a harbour gate 
or by any avenue from the sea. A child 
would have known that much, and I was a 
child in idea no longer. All my faculties 
were sharpened beyond any point in my 
experience. Tliere was an exultation of the 
night I could not explain. Standing upon 
the chff's edge and looking out over the 
moonlit beach and the lonely sea, looking 
out toward the lights of "^ England, my 
country, I said that I had cheated France 
once and would cheat her once again. And, 
with that for my watchword, 1 turned my 
face toward the pastures and went doggedly, 
stubbornly on — I knew not whither," if It 
were not toward the liglit. 

Heavy fields, dark paths, fallow land, 
through wheat, through barley, now with 
clumsy steps over difficult ground, again 
with new^ energy where the grass was good, 
by such I sought my safety when I had 
quitted the sea and turned mj steps shore- 
ward. Often I was haunted by phantom 
figures, the unreal shapes of horsemen 
galloping over the darkened fields, the sudden 

apparitions \\\ the shadows of a spinney, tbe 
imagined pursuers whose cries clamoured in 
my ears. But all was my fancy — for I was 
alone there ; alone with the clear, white light, 
alone with the sleeping cattle, and the 
startled sheep, and the horses that galloped 
fearsomely as they heard n^y steps. And no 
longer could I reckon with direction or 
locality. I must escape the men, I said — 
always that and nothing more. Though 
fatigue began to weigh upon me, and my 
step was slower, and I said that I had come 
to the end of efl'ort, my purpose stood 
unshaken. I must get back to England. 

A vaguer sense of locality, an odd singing 
in my ears, the sudden consciousness that, 
unwittingly, I had quitted the fields and 
struck upon a road, brought me to a stand 
at last as at a challenge of my reason. "What 
road was it, then ? I peered about, yet 
could make nothing of it. Yonder in the 
distance the lights of Calais beckoned me as 
to a prison. Far away, out of the shadows 
of the moonlight, I could distinguish a 
carriage upon the hillside, and a pair of 
ponies that drew it. Who would be abroad 
in such a place and such a carriage ? Again 
and again, as though my head had been 
nuiddled by a blow, I asked myself that 
question. Who came toward Calais in a 
pony carriage at that time of night ? 
" Great God ! " I cried at length, " if it were 
Agnes ! " 

{To be continued.) 


By Herbert C. Fyfe. 

ONE is not at all surprised to learn 
that the largest locomotive in the 
world hails from the United States. 
America is the land of big things ; and when 
a writer in a transatlantic paper claimed the 
other day that his country echpsed all others 
in the number of its structures, both in civil 
and mechanical engineering, that could claim 
the distinction of being " the biggest in the 
world," he was probably not far wrong in 
his assertion. 

By the kindness of Mr. D. A. Wightman, 
the general manager of the Pittsburgh 
Locomotive and Car Works in Pennsylvania, 

forms part of the Carnegie system and con- 
nects the Duquesne Furnaces, Homestead 
Steel Works, and the Edgar Thomson Steel 
Works. Four miles of the line are built on 
a grade of 70 ft. to the mile, and another 
stretch of the road (about 2,000 ft.) is built 
on the unusually heavy grade of 2*7 per 
cent. The estimated tractive force of the 
115-ton Pittsburgh locomotive is 53,280 lb., 
and the estimated hauling capacity on a 
practically level track is about 6,650 tons. 
The hauling capacity on a level of 6,650 tons 
represents a train of 166 box-cars loaded with 
wheat. The total length of such a train 



we are enabled to present our readers with 
some photographs of a mammoth freight 
locomotive which lays claim to the title of 
the largest in the world. These photographs 
are here published for the first time, and 
they will probably come as a revelation to 
English readers who are not accustomed to 
the sight of the enormous engines which are 
so common in the United States. We are 
also indebted to Mr. Wightman for some 
interesting facts about the engine. 

This locomotive is unquestionably the 
most powerful ever constructed. It has been 
built quite recently by the Pittsburgh Loco- 
motive and Car Works for the Union Rail- 
road Company, of Pittsburgh, and is now at 
work on a short stretch of line between 
Munhall and North Bessemer, Pa., which 

would be 5,700 ft. — considerably over a 
mile ; and the wheat would represent, at an 
average of fifteen bushels to the acre, the 
product of 9,000 acres, or over fourteen 
square miles of land. This enormous load 
could be taken over the road — or, rather, 
the level portion of it— at a comfortable 
speed of ten miles an hour. 

As an American contemporary has re- 
marked, he would have seemed a bold 
prophet to our forefathers who would have 
dared to foretell that at the close of this 
century we should have steam horses that 
could cart away the product of fourteen square 
miles of the countryside at a load, and do it 
at a gait faster than that of the local mail 

The unique photograph which is repro- 
169 N 




duced on page 171. was specially taken in 
order to give an idea of the immense size of 
the parts of the locomotive. Tt shows the 
little yard engine mounted on the cylinders 
of the mammoth Pittsburgh engine. The 
small engine was lifted to its perch by the 
shop crane. It is standing on the cylinder 
casting, which weighs 8| tons as against a 
weight of 6J tons for the yard engine. The 
cylinders of the latter are 6 in. by 10 in. ; 
its gauge is 24 in. ; the diameter of the boiler 
24 in. ; driving wheels 26| in. ; tractive 
force 1,883 lb. 

The cylinders of the mammoth locomotive, 
which are 23 in. in diameter, are only 1 in. 
less than the diameter of the yard engine 
boiler (24 in.). Its drivers are 54 in. in 
diameter ; its steam pressure is 200 lb. ; its 
tractive power 26| tons ; its heating surface 
is ?>,822 sq. ft. C and its hauling capacity 
on the level 6,650 tons. 

The cylinders of the Pittsburgh locomotive 
are of the half -saddle type, made heavy, and 
have great depth longitudinally. A steel 
plate If in., and of the same width as the 
bottom of the saddle, extends across, and is 
bolted to the lower frames, and to the plate 
as well as to the frames. The cylinders are 

securely fastened. Heavy bolts passing 
through the top frame-bars at the front and 
back of the saddle form additional transverse 
ties and relieve the saddle casting f rom^ all 
tensile strains. Its longitudinal strains, 
usually transmitted to cylinders through 
frames, are largely absorbed by the use of a 
casting extended from the buffer-beam well 
up to the saddle and securely bolted to the 
top and bottom frames. This casting also 
acts as a guide for the bolster-pin of the 
truck. The above method of relieving 
cylinders of longitudinal- stress was intro- 
duced by the Pittsburgh Locomotive Works 
nearly two years ago, and has proved, in 
practical use on a large number of locomotives, 
to be of great value in reducing the breakage 
of saddle castings. The frames are 4| in. 
wide. They were cut from rolled steel slabs 
made by the Carnegie Steel Company, and 
weigh 8 1 tons per pair when finished. 

America has always been famous for her 
huge locomotives, and in recent years several 
of these monsters have been turned out in 
the different yards. Mention may be made 

1 . The Decapod TankLocomotive, specially 
constructed for the St. Clair Tunnel. 




2. The Twelve- Wheel Locomotive, con- 
structed for the Northern Pacific Railroad 

8. The Decapod Erie Locomotive. 

4. The Pennsylvania, Class H, No. 5, Con- 
solidation Locomotive. 

5. Tlie Twelve- Wheel Locomotive, con- 
structed for the Great Northern Railroad Co. 

6. The Pittsburgh Consolidation Mammoth 
Locomotive, the " largest in the world," with 
which we are dealing in this article. 

1G7 tons. The total length over all of 
engine and tender is 63 ft. 3 J in. The 
centre of the boiler is 9 ft. 3| in. above the 
rails, the top of the boiler is 13 ft., and the 
smokestack 15^ ft., above the rails. The 
driving-axle journals are 9 in. by 12 in., and 
the main crank-pieces 7 in. by 7 in. The 
steam-ports are If in. wide by 20 in. long, 
while the exhaust-ports are 3^ in. by 20 in. 
The tender has a capacity of 5,000 gallons 
of water and 10 tons of coal. 


In the following table we give a compari- 
son of these big freight locomotives with one 

Total Diam. Stroke 

Total heating of of 

weight. surface. cylinders, cylinders. 

No. 1 180,000 lb. 2,411-8 sq. ft. 22 in, 28 in. 

2 186,000 „ 2,943-4 ,, 23 „ 30 „ 

3 195,000 „ 2,443-1 „ 16 „ 28 „ 

4 198,000 „ 2,917 „ 23 „ 28 „ 

5 212,750 „ 3,280 „ 21 „ 34 ,, 

6 230,000 ,, 3,322 „ 23 „ 32 ,, 

The tender is of the standard type and 
weighs when loaded 52 tons, so that the weight 
of the engine and tender in working order is 

Ameiican engineers indignantly deny that 
in the construction of the "biggest in the 
world " they are influenced by a desire to 
build big things for the mere sake of their 
bigness, and to pander to the curiosity of the 
pubhc, who are naturally interested in know- 
ing that such and such a piece of engineer- 
ing has " beaten the record." The U.S. 
engineer will tell you that huge machines 
like the Pittsburgh locomotive are big 
because it has been found that it pays to 
make them big. " The Pittsburgh Consolida- 
tion Engine," writes one of these engineers. 




"weighs nine tons more than the Great 
Northern Mountain Locomotive, not because 
the Carnegie Steel Company wished to ' beat 
the record ' by possessing the biggest freight 
engine in the world, but for the very practical 
reasons that the Company wished to have 
their freight at the least possible cost per 
ton, and the clearances of the road on which 
it was to run, and the strength of the bridges 
it would have to cross, allowed a locomotive 
of this size and weight to be used." 

Readers may perhaps be inclined to ask 
why it is that our English railway companies 
do not go in for such mammoth locomotives 
if the American companies find them so 
much more economical than smaller engines. 
It may be taken that the continually increas- 
ing size of American engines is due to the 
desire to secure the most economical results 
in operation. Anyone can readily under- 
stand that it is preferable to haul a heavy 
train with a single engine rather than two 
light trains with light engines. The work- 
ing of the line is simplified and the number 
of men employed is less. 

The reason we do not go in for a 
larger type of engine over here is because 
the restrictions to size on the English rail- 
roads, in the way of low bridges, narrow 
tunnels, and bridges of limited carrying 
power, are such as to prohibit the use of the 
huge express freight engines which are 
common in the United States. 

And yet there are not wanting Americans 
who criticise adversely the tendency of 
locomotives to grow bigger and bigger. As 
a recent writer put it, " In the United States 
the question of the weight of locomotives 
is generally settled without paying much 

attention to the protests of the engineer in 
charge of the track, except to get his 
assurance that his bridges are strong enough 
to carry the increased weight. In Europe, 
however, and especially in England, the 
engineer in charge of the permanent way is 
almost invariably a much more important 
personage than the locomotive superintendent, 
and his veto is often successfully interposed 
where it is proposed to build engines heavier 
than he considers good for his tracks and 
road-bed. It is probably due to this wise 
conservatism that the tracks of the main line 
of the London and North-Western Railway 
are always in such magnificent condition 
with apparently but little effort. Thus the 
celebrated * Lady of the Lake ' class of 
locomotives, which have hauled the Irish 
and Scotch mail-trains for so many years, 
weighed in their original form only a 
little over 60,000 lb. in working order. 
These engines had single driving-wheels, 
7| ft. in diameter, with 16 in. by 24 in. 
cylinders. Even though some of them have 
been rebuilt during the past few years, they 
now weigh in working order only slightly 
over 65,000 lb., while the heaviest express 
passenger engine on the London aiid North- 
western system weighs 101,920 lb." Com- 
pared with the weight of the Pittsburgh 
Mammoth Locomotive (230,000 lb.), this is, 
of course, very little indeed. 

President Charles P. Clark, of the New 
York, New Haven, and Hartford Railroad, 
when asked what had impressed him most 
forcibly during his recent trip to Europe, 
replied that he came home with the con- 
viction that both engines and trains in the 
United States were generally heavier than 



the J need be, and that, so far as he was 
concerned, he would do his best to devise 
some plan of lightening the dead load of 
engines and trains on the railway with which 
he was connected. He felt sure that the 
advantage of such a reform, wherever 
practicable on American railways, in pre- 
serving the track in good condition, was too 
obvious to require comment. 

But if America is the land of big things, 
it is also the land of small things. As 
if to show* his versatility, the American 
engineer boasts that he has constructed the 
smallest engine in the world. At the recent 
" Trans-Mississippi and International Expo- 
sition," at Omaha, one of the attractions 
was " The Smallest Passenger Train in the 
World." This diminutive train was con- 
structed by Mr. Thomas B. McGarigh, of 
Niagara Falls, and he claimed that it was the 
smallest ever built for the conveyance of 
passengers. The locomotive (which weighed 
but 600 lb.) was in every respect a faithful 
reproduction of the parts and working of a 
full-sized passenger locomotive. 

But even this tiny engine is said to be 
eclipsed by another, also built for the actual 
haulage of a train containing passengers. 
On Young and McShae's pier at Atlantic 
City, New Jersey, is a notice-board which 
states that there is to be seen on the pier 
the "Smallest Train in the World for Carry- 
ing Passengers ; fare five cents." 

The immense size of the American con- 
tinent, and the variety of conditions that 
have to be met, tend to make the engineers 
on the other side of the herring-pond more 

resourceful than those of the United King- 
dom. Many unusual forms of locomotives 
are to be met with in the States, but each is 
designed for some specific purpose. On the 
Mexican Central Railway there is a very 
curious locomotive in operation. It was 
designed by Mr. F. W. Johnstone, Super- 
intendent of motive power of this railway, 
and was built by the Phode Island Loco- 
motive Works, at Providence. It was made 
for special service in drawing freight-trains 
over heavy grades and curves on certain 
parts of the road, and in appearance it is 
much like a couple of locomotives backed up 
together, with the two cabs joined. Flexi- 
bility sufficient to go round sharp curves 
with the least frictional resistance was gained 
by securing the driving-wheels in a truck 
which is free to move in a line different from 
that followed by the main frames. 

On one section of the Mexican Railway 
there are inclines as steep as 1 in 25, and 
a special kind of engine has been built by 
Messrs. Neilson and Co., of Glasgow, for 
these inclines. The engines are exception- 
ally heavy, and when fully loaded with water 
and fuel weigh ninety-four tons. Each bogie 
is fitted with two cylinders, and is an engine 
complete in itself, steam being supplied from 
the boiler which is common to both. 

Unique forms of engines are also to be 
found in the States built expressly for the 
pine lumber industry, where they have to 
haul heavy loads over steep grades and on 
poor roads. Official statistics (made up last 
year) give the total number of locomotives 
in the United States as approximately 36,000. 



By J, Ayton Symington. 


Photo by} 

[E. Hawkins & Co., Brighton. 

TWENTY years ago this article could 
not have been written. Till the 
middle of the seventies centuries 
were as rare as illustrated magazines. With 
the exception of W. G. Grace, the most 
famous batsmen could easily count on the 
fingers of one hand the number of times 
tliey had played an innings of a hundred, 
and there were plenty of first-class cricketers 
who had never scored a century at all. 
The smoothness of modern pitches and a 
succession of abnormally dry summers has 
altered all that. Nowadays the difficulty 
would be to find a dozen men in first-class 
cricket who have not scored a couple of cen- 
turies at some time or other. Still, even 
though the century-makers' glory has been 
dimmed by their numbers, there is always an 
interest attaching to the first century of a 
great batsman. 

Unfortunately, the modesty of most of our 
batsmen prevents them from looking at the 
matter in this light. Nearly all the amateurs 
to whom I applied for the purpose of this 
article answered my first application by 
replying that they did not believe that the 
details of their first century could be of the 
slightest interest to anyone. As will be 


With Contributions by 


C. B. FRY, K. J. KEY, 



J. T. BROWN, 1). L. A. JEPHSON, 


Here Chronicled 


M. Randal Roberts. 

seen from the letters below, I was 
luckily able to overcome this coyness. 
One amateur, by the way— a very 
famous Notts batsman — entered so 
heartily into my scheme at the be- 
ginning that I was led to expect 
great things from his pen. He even 
volunteered the opinion that the idea 
of the article was a capital one ; but 
the delivery of this flattering criticism 
apparently induced a fit of absent- 
mindedness. Anyhow, though I 
jogged his memory with repeated reminders, 
I am still waiting for his account of his first 
century. The professionals are but scantily 
represented here. That, however, is owing 
to the professionals' shortness of memory, 
not to any lack of importunity on the 
part of the compiler of this article. I have 
a long journalistic acquaintance with most 
of the professional cricketers in England, but 
I could not persuade any of them to un- 
bosom themselves to me about their first 
hundred. " It's so long ago, I really can't 
remember anything about it," was the burden 
of most of the replies I received. Coming 
from such century - hardened veterans as 
Abel, Shrewsbury, or Gunn, who have been 
making scores of a hundred for twenty years, 
this excuse is valid enough ; but in the case 
of batsmen whose appearance in county 
cricket dates back only a couple of years, it 
may be taken with a very liberal sprinkling 
of salt. After all, his first century is an 
epoch in the career of every cricketer. 

The most interesting of all first centuries 
is, of course, W. G. Grace's. I confess I had 
some misgivings about being able to draw 
the great man on this subject. In the first 
place, " W. G." hates confessions of all sorts ; 




in the second place, I knew that his first cen- 
tury was hidden in such remote antiquity 
that I doubted whether he would be able to 
recall the actual date or any particulars 
concerning it. As it turned out, " W. Gr." 
could not say from memory exactly where or 
when he scored his first hundred, but he very 


kindly pro voided me with the material for 
finding what I wanted. Below I give his 
letter — 

" London County Cricket Club, 
" Crystal Palace, 

" Sydenham, S.E. 
"I am sending you an old LiUywhite's 
Guide. You will find at pages 92 and 93 

an account of my first hundred in first- 
class cricket. I fancy it was my first hundred 
in any cricket, but am not sure, it was so 
long ago. Please return the Guide as soon 
as you have done with it. 

" Yours truly, 

"W. G. Grace." 

On turning to pages 92 and 93 
I found the following account of a 
match played between the Gentle- 
men of Sussex and the South Wales 
Club, on July 14th, 15th, 16tli, 
1864. "The hitting was com- 
menced by the South Wales Gentle- 
men, who lost a wicket for 19 runs. 
Then came the most extraordinary 
incident in this great hitting match. 
Mr. J. Lloyd was partnered by 
Mr. W. G. Grace, the younger 
brother of the celebrated cricketer, 
and they w^ere not parted until the 
score stood at 207. Mr. Lloyd left 
for 82, a well played innings ; but 
young Mr. Grace did not leave 
until he had scored 170 runs, pro- 
nounced to be the ^ finest innings 
played last season on the Brighton 
ground. He did not give a single 
chance, and was at last out by 
playing the ball on to his wicket. 
He also carried out his bat for 56 
in the second innings. When it is 
borne in mind that this young 
gentleman was not sixteen years of 
age until the 18th of July, two 
days after the match was played, 
there can be very little doubt that 
this 170 and 56 not out, of Mr. 
W. G. Grace's, was one of the 
greatest batting feats of the great 
batting season of 1864." 

All superlatives have long since 
been exhausted in describing W. G. 
Grace's dazzling career, but if a 
succinct proof were wanted of his 
overpowering superiority to all 
players, past and present, it could 
be found in this — that he scored 
his first century in 1864, and that 
in 1900 he is still holding his own 
with the best in first-class cricket. 

In the same year that Grace played the 
first of his hundred odd centuries, the cricketer 
who possibly comes next to him in merit was 
born. As most cricketing careers go, A. E. 
Stoddart is almost a veteran, but he is 
positively an infant compared with W. G. 
Grace. Mr. Stoddart, as will be seen from 




his letter, like some other cricketers to 
whom I applied, took my question to refer 
to his first century in first-class cricket. As 
a matter of fact, he scored bushels of cen- 
turies for the Hampstead Club long before 
he appeared for Middlesex. At the time of 
writing it is not known whether Mr. Stoddart 
will take part in county cricket this season, 
but the mere recounting of a few of his 
great feats makes one feel what an irreparable 
loss to the game his permanent retirement 
will be. In reply to my request for some 
details about his first century, Mr. Stoddart 
wrote as follows — 

" South Hampstead, N.W. 
" Of course there is always pleasure to be 
got out of making a century, whether you 
win the match or lose it. But the pleasure 
is very naturally enhanced when the hundred 
one makes happens to win, or, at any rate, 
helps to win, the match. My first hundred 
in first-class cricket was made against Kent, 
at Gravesend, on August 13th, 1886, but the 
match was drawn and my innings was by no 
means a good one. What I consider the 
century of my career was made on the 
occasion of the visit of my first team to 
Australia on the 1st of January, 1895, at 
Melbourne, in the second of the test matches. 
We were 48 runs to the bad on the first 
innings ; in the second innings I made 178 
out of a total of 475, leaving the Australians 

Photo hy Hawkins, Brighton. 

428 runs to get— a score they fell short of 
by 94 runs. As I felt that I had con- 
tributed a small share to England's victory, 
nothing I have ever done in cricket gives me 
the same lasting pleasure to look back on as 
that innings. 

" Yours truly, 

"A. E. Stoddart." 

Mr. Stoddart must have been in tremen- 
dous form at the time he made his first 
century in county cricket, as it was within 
a few days of his hundred against Kent, at 
Gravesend, that he made his mammoth score 
of 485 for the Hampstead Club against the 

Did he not tell us so himself, we should 
never believe that it is twenty years ago since 
S, M. J. Woods scored his first century. 
According to Wisden, " Sammy " Woods was 
born in 1868, and, as he tells us that he 
was twelve years old when he made his first 
hundred, it must be twenty years ago since 
he accomplished that feat. But I am not 
sure that w^e should be surprised if we had 
heard that he had started making centuries 
thirty years ago. " Sammy " is the type of 
cricketer who looks as if he had been born 
with a bat in his hand. He made centuries 
as a boy, and as a man he is a whole side in 
himself. Here is his letter — 

Photo hy} IThiele. 

S. M. J. WOODS. 

" When I was twelve I scored 109 out of 
148 for Juniors of Eoyston College, Sydney, 
New South Wales. I was in the first eleven 
at the time and played for them in the 
afternoon. I remember telling the captain 
that I had made a century in the morning, 
thinking he might put me in a little earlier. 
I generally went in last, as I was a bowler. 



rhuto by] 

[R. W. Thomas, Cheapside. 

Much to my disgust, he said, ' Oh, then you 
ueed not go in soon, as you will be too tired ; 
or, if you do, get out first ball.' Which I 
did without any trying to. 

" S. M. J. Woods." 

"Sammy " has not had to Avait on a captain's 
instructions very often since those early days. 
From the time he entered Brighton College 
he has generally been captain of any team lie 
has played for— and a right good captain, 

Lord Hawke's account of his first hundred 
is, unfortunately, rather brief, but that is not 

at all the fault of the Yorkshire captain. Lord 
Hawke originally wrote me a most interesting 
and graphic description of his first century. 
A very well known amateur whom I asked for 
a contribution to this article told me that he 
would be glad to waite it if I would let him 
have a sample of the kind of thing I wanted. 
I sent him Lord Hawke's letter as a guide- 
post, but from that day to this I have 
neither seen the sample nor the contribution 
for which it was to serve as a model. At the 
last moment, just as this article was going 
to press, I applied again to Lord Hawke, and 
he very courteously consented to write me 
another account of his first hundred, but as 
the cricket season had just begun he had no 
time to look up records and had to write 
merely from memory. His second letter ran 
as follows — 

"Wighill Park, 

" Tadcaster. 
"I really forget exactly what I wrote 
about my first century, but, as far as I 
recollect, it was that I made 171 out of 191, 
in Lower Boys Cup Tie, at Eton, in 1875. 
Kan six others out, bagging the bowling. 
First hundred in first-class cricket was 141 
for Cambridge v. C. L Thornton's XL, 
in 1888, against the bowling of Peate, 
Ulyett, and Barnes. Yery busy— hope this 
will do. 

" Yours very truly, 

" Hawke." 

Here is what C. B. Fry has to say about 
his first century — 

" Chelsea. 
" I am sorry to say I can't recall the 
circumstances of the *^ first century I ever 
made ; but the first hundred I made in first- 
class cricket was at Ashley Down, Bristol— it 
was in 1894, 1 fancy. The wicket was of the 
sticky order, but a trifle too slow to be really 
difficult. I managed to make 109 in a part- 
nership with Butt, our wicket-keeper, who 
made 75. We both made most of our runs 
by 'pulls' and 'hooks.' I certainly did not 
play w^ell. I did not at the time know how 
to play back, and kept reaching forward at 
the breaking ball and nearly getting bowled. 
I ought to have been stumped at 99 off C. 
L. Townsend, whose bowling I found most 
difficult ; in fact, he was my master all 
through, but luck was with me that day. 
The other bowlers, as far as I can remember, 
were J. J. Ferris, Koberts, and ' W. C 
Sussex won by an innings, I think. I missed 
four ' dolly ' catches in close succession. But 

WSSSmSSm ^ WP i W W WiW ii i ii ^ WlR 




Photographs by E. Hawkins <{• Co., Brighton. 



the scoring on the Gloucestershire side was 
low. I fear my first century was not a great 
innings. "Yours, 

" C. B. Fry." 

Though Mr. Fry cannot remember the date 
of his very first century, some of his school- 
fellows have a more retentive memory. An 
old Repton boy told me the other day that 
he distinctly remembers 0. B. Fry playing an 
innings of over a hundred in a house match 
at Eepton, some ten years ago. The wTiter, 
besides, has a well defined recollection of a 
certain young man with the same name and 
initials as Mr. Fry, who had been previously 
known as an excellent Association back and 
a marvellous long-jumper, making a hundred 
in the " Freshers " match at Oxford in 1892. 
Talking of Repton, it is worth remarking 
how completely C. B. Fry has distanced in 
the last couple of seasons his old school- 
fellow and rival, L. C. H. Palairet, in the 

Photo hy] 

[HawJcins, Brighton. 

race for cricket honours. At Repton, and 
at Oxford, L. C. H. Palairet w^as always 
regarded as a batsman of a much higher class 
than 0. B. Fry, but continued ill-health has 
materially affected the former's renown as a 
cricketer!' Undoubtedly 0. B. Fry's fine 
constitution has been an important factor in 
his athletic success. 

The bowler who, C. B. Fry tells us, proved 
his master when he was making his first cen- 
tury has something to say about his own first 
hundred in first-class cricket. In 1894, as 
all the world knows, 0. L. Townsend was 
the most promising bowler in England, but 
was no great shakes as a batsman. It was in 
1897 that his great batting abilities first 
show^ed themselves. For some reason or 
other, nine out of ten cricketers will tell 
you that they would rather score a hundred 
against Yorkshire than any other county. 
0. L. Townsend, as will be seen from his 
letter below, shares this feeling— 

" Clifton Club, 

" Clifton, Bristol. 
" We were playing Yorkshire, at Harrogate, 
on July 20th, 21st, 22nd, 1897. It was in this 
match that Gilbert Jessop, who went in just 
before me, scored his historic 101 in forty 
minutes. I had to go in immediately after 
this astonishing bit of hitting, and never felt 
less like making runs. However, I suppose 
I must have been in good form at the time, 
for after the first few overs everything seemed 
easy to me. I was as slow as a snail at first, 
but after my first fifty I began to score quite 
fast and made my last fifty in about forty-five 
minutes, an exceedingly fast rate for me in 
those days. It was a most exciting moment 
for me when I saw the handkerchief go and 
knew that I had gained my ambition and 
scored a hundred against Yorkshire. What- 
ever hundreds I have made since, none have 
given me the same pleasure as that particular 
century against Yorkshire. 

" Yours truly, 

" C. L. Townsend." 

Mr. Townsend's letter is a* well deserved 
tribute to the irritating excellence of the 
Yorkshire bowHng. 

With an increased experience of first-class 
cricket many cricketers change their original 
methods. J. DarUng, the Australian, started 
life as a great hitter, though in important 
matches he is now a " stick " of the most pro- 
nounced order. George Brann, too, and 
even C. B. Fry, played a vastly freer game 
in their early days of county cricket than 
they do at present. Perhaps the most won- 

MY FIRST century: 


derful thing about Gilbert Jessop's batting 
is that he has never changed his style a jot. 
Time cannot temper his ferocious hitting. 
As will be seen from his confession below, 
his first hundred, in a local match in Essex, 
was made by exactly the same methods as he 
employs to-day against the most skilful 
bowling in the world. Once let him get his 
eye in, and he can carve a century out of the 
best balls of Lockwood, Eichardson, and 
J. T. Hearne, as easily as from the half 
volleys of the merest agriculturalists in a 
Saturday afternoon match on the village 
green. Mr. Jessop thus describes his first 
hundred — 

" My first appearance as a centurion in 
any match was in Essex, for South Wood- 
ford V. Woodford United, in 1893, when I 
scored 112. I can remember that it was a 
distinctly lucky innings, remarkable chiefly 
for the number of opportunities I presented 
to the wicket-keeper. I stood a foot and a 
half outside my crease during most of the 
innings, and eventually fell a victim to my 
rashness, by being stumped through the ball 
rebounding from the wicket-keeper's pads. 
This habit of mine, by the way, of standing 
outside the crease, greatly displeased the 
journalistic critics when first I played county 
cricket. The comments of a Manchester 
evening paper on my debut as a first-class 
cricketer were certainly not very encouraging 
to a nervous player. They read as follows : 
' If Mr. Jessop cannot bat better than he 
can bowl or field, he will certainly not be an 
acquisition to the western shire.' My run- 
ning out to Mold was condemned in those 
days as ' rustic cricket ' by a good few of the 
people who nowadays talk of the same 
method as good forcing tactics. Mores 

" Sincerely yours, 

" Gilbert L. Jessop." 

Mr. J. R. Mason's account of his first cen- 
tury is short and concise — 

" In reply to your letter of the 27th, I 
scored my first century for Mr. Smith's House 
V, Mr. Du Boulay's House, on July 14th, 
1891. I made 169 not out, and know that 
I was missed three or four times at least, but 
can't remember any further details. 
" Yours truly, 

" J. R. Mason." 

I wonder how many schoolboys have made 
a century without being missed at least half 
a dozen times. 

Photo by} 

Iffawkins, Brighton. 


Abel had forgotten all about his first cen- 
tury, but he solaced my feelings with the 
following pleasant little note — • 

" Sorry I can't give you any assistance m 
your article on ' My First Century,' but I 
have quite forgotten when and where I made 
my first hundred, and have not kept a record. 
Otherwise I should have been very pleased 
to have obliged you. 

"Yours truly, 

" Robert Abel." 

Robert Abel's late captain was more com- 
municative. Mr. Key, luckily, keeps cricket 
records, and was good enough to put himself 
to considerable trouble in looking up some of 
these records for the benefit of the readers of 
the Windsor. 

" 22, Summer Place, S.W. 

"I am sorry I have not answered your 
letter sooner, but I have been trying to look 
up particulars. My first hundred was made for 
Clifton College against the Old Cliftonians, 
at Commemoration, in 1882. My score was 
181 not out ; I went in first wicket down ; 
I rather think the innings was unfinished. I 



remember being missed at third man when I 
had made about fourteen, but that was about 
my only chance. The bowHng cannot have 
been formidable. T. W. Lang was one bowler, 
and at the end of the innings J. A. Bush 
bowled fast underhand sneaks, when he suc- 
ceeded in running out a boy who was backing 
up too much. 

" Yours truly, 

" K. J. Key." 

Since the days of C. F. H. Leslie, Rugby 
has not been particularly rich in cricketers. 
But a batsman of the cahbre of P. F.Warner, 
"commonly known as 'Plum,' who takes 
teams to America, and goes in first for 
Middlesex," amply compensates for many 
failures. Mr. Warner took to making cen- 
turies at an early age and has continued the 
practice ever since. He was only sixteen 
when the event related below took place. 
This is how he describes it — 

"The first time I ever made a century 
was at Rugby, against the Free Foresters. 
The match was played on June 16tli and 17th, 
1890, and my ccore was 177 not out. The 
Free Foresters scored 311, a,nd the School 
303. I went in first wicket down, when only 
a few^ runs had been scored, and was 20 
not out overnight, and 99 not out at lunch 
on the second day. The wicket was a very 
good one, just the right pace, not too fast, 
and my last forty runs were made after 
a shower of rain, the ball cutting through 
and the wicket being very easy. I was 
missed twice, when about 84, and again at 
132. This 177 is the highest score I have 
ever made. 

" Yours truly, 

" P. F. Warner." 

There is a curious similarity, by the way, 
between the first centuries of K. J. Key, 
J. R. Mason, and P. F. Warner. Each made 
approximately the same number of runs, each 
was not out, and the three were all school- 
boys at the time. 

There is nothing new under the sun. I 
had flattered myself that in this article I had 
perpetrated an entirely novel idea, till J. T. 
Brown's letter dispelled the notion. Some 
other cricket enthusiast had evidently got 
hold of the idea before. Luckily for me, he 
failed in his attempt to carry it out. 

"I am sorry I cannot oblige you by 
writing an account of my first century ; but 
as I have been asked to do so before, and 
refused, I think it would not look well of me 
to do so now. 

" Yours truly, 

"J. T. Brown." 

Mr. 1). L. K. Jephson had to thank the 
fieldsmen for his first century. The new 
Surrey captain frankly tells us that he was 
missed more than a dozen times — 

" Surrey County Cricket Club, 

" Kennington Oval, S.E. 
" I hope this note is not too late for your 
purpose. The first century I ever made was 
for the Clapham Wanderers (now the Wan- 
derers), at Penshurst, in Kent, fourteen years 
ago. I got 148, and was missed fifteen 
times. The only way I can account for my 
making such a score was that the ground was 
so exceedingly small that all the bad strokes 
counted four — as they went clean out of the 
ground — and the good ones only one or two. 
" Yours sincerely, 

" 1). L. A. Jephson." 



lUvHtrated hy Harold Copping. 

IINCE the 
day when 
the Spar- 
row and a 
few young 
friends had 
, every pane 
of glass in 
I the Count's 
and the 
Count had 
paid for 
the damage 
like a 
inan, that 
had spent 
all his 
spare cash 
— which 

we thought afterwards was not very much — 
in encouraging athletic exercises among the 
Seminary lads. His zeal, like that of every 
other convert, was much greater than his 
knowledge, and left to his own devices he 
would certainly have gone far astray ; but 
with the able assistance of the Sparrow, with 
whom he took intimate counsel, it was 
astonishing what a variety could be infused 
into the sports. When every ordinary com- 
petition had been held, and champions had 
been declared (and this had never been done 
before in the history of the school) for the 
hundred yards, the quarter, and the mile 
(the ten miles down the Carse and over the 
top of Kinnoul Hill had been stopped by an 
impromptu meeting of parents), for broad 
jumping and high jumping, for throwing the 
cricket-ball and kickinr^ the football, the 
Sparrow came out witii a quite new pro- 
gramme which was rapturously received, and, 
had it not met with a cross-providence, would 
have lasted over four happy Saturdays and 

^ * Copyri'jjht, 1900, by Jolin Watson, in the United 
States of America. 


considerably reduced the attendance at tlie 
Seminary. The first item w^as a swimming 
match across the Tay, a river not to be 
trifled with, and four boys were saved from 
death by a salmon-cobble, whose owner for- 
tunately turned up to watch the sport. The 
Count was so excited by this event that he 
not only lost his hat in the river, but being 
prevented from going in to help, for the very 
good reason that he could not swim a stroke, 
he took off and flung the coat, which Avas the 
marvel of Muirtown, into the river, in the 
hope that it might serve as a lifebelt. The 
second item, upon which the Sparrow prided 
himself very much, was a climbing match, 
and for this he had selected a tree which 
seemed to be designed for the purpose, since 
it had a rook's nest on its highest branch, 
and no branches at all for the first twenty 
feet. The conditions were, that every boy 
above twelve should have his chance, and 
the boy who climbed to the top, put his 
hand into the rook's nest, and came down in 
the shortest time, should get the prize. The 
Seminary above twelve were going up and 
down that tree a whole Saturday morning, 
and in one kirk next day thanks were offered 
in the first prayer in peculiarly dignified and 
guarded terms that half the families of 
Muirtown had not been bereaved. As a 
matter of fact, nobody was killed, and no 
limbs were broken, but the Sparrow, who 
was not allowed to enter for this competition, 
but acted as judge, with his tongue out all 
the time at the sight of the sport, had to go 
up twice on errands of mercy, once to 
release his friend Howieson, who had missed 
a branch and was hanging by his feet, and 
the second time to succour Pat Ritchie, who 
was suspended by the seat of his trousers, 
swaying to and fro like a gigantic apple on the 
branch. It was understood that the Seminary 
had never enjoyed themselves so entirely to 
their heart's content, but the Count's moral 
courage failed during the performance, and 
at the most critical moment he was afraid to 
look. When Muirtown got wind of this last 
achievement of the Sparrow's, indignation 
meetings were held at church-doors and 
street-corners, and it was conveyed to the 




'You will see, lia, ha! aou wi 

Rector — ^wlio knew notln'njjc til){)ut the matter, 
and was so absent-minded tliat if lie liiid 
passed wonld never liave seen wliut was '^oxw^ 
on — that if J^rovidence an as going to l)e 
tempted in this fashion again, the matter 
would be brought before the Town Council. 
The Count himself would have been faith- 
fully dealt with had he not been considered 
a helpless tool in the hands of the Sparrow, 
who was now understood to have filled the 
cup of his sins up to the brim ; and he might 
have been at last expelled from the Seminary, 
of which he was the chief ornament, had it 
not been that the Count went to the Eector 
and explained that the idea had been his 
from beginning to end, and that it was with 
the utmost difficulty he could induce the 
Sparrow even to be present. For, as I said, 
the Count was a perfect gentleman and 
always stood by his friends through thick and 
thin ; but the thrashing which the Sparrow 


got from Bulldog was monumental, and in 
preparation for it that ingenious youth put 
on three folds of underclothing. 

What the Sparrow bitterly regretted, how- 
ever, was not the punishment, which was 
cheap at the money, but the loss of the next 
tw^o items in his programme. He had planned 
a boxing competition, in which the main 
feature was to be a regular set-to between 
Dune Robertson and himself, to decide finally 
which was the better man, for they had 
fought six times and the issue was. still 
doubtful ; and the Sparrow, who had a profli- 
gate genius outside the class-rooms, had also 
imagined a pony race with hurdles ; and as 



about twenty fellows, farmers' sons and others, 
liad ponies, of which they wx^re always 
bragging, and the Sparrow had the pick of 
his father's stables, he modestly believed that 
the affair would be worth seeing. When the 
hurdle race was forbidden, for which the 
Sparrow had already begun to make entries 
and to arrange weights with his father's 
valuable assistance, he took the matter so 
much to heart that liis health gave way, and 
Mr. McGuffie senior had to take him* to 
recruit at the Kilmarnock Races, from which 
he returned in the highest spirits and full of 

For some time after this painful incident 
the Count lay Ioav and adopted a deprecating 
manner when he met the fathers and mothers 
of Muirtown ; but he . gave his friends to 
understand that his resources were not at an 
end, and that he had a surprise in store for the 
Seminary. The Sparrow ran over every form 
of sport in casual conversation to discover 
what was in the Count's mind, but he would 
not be drawn and grew more mysterious 
every day. One Saturday evening in mid- 
summer he took the Spairow and Kestie into 
his confidence, explaining that his idea would 
be announced to the assembled school by him- 
self next Wednesday, and that it had nothing 
to do, as the Sparrow had hinted in turn, with 
rats, or rabbits, or fencing, or the sword 
dance. With their permission he would say 
one w^ord which would be enough for persons 
of so distinguished an imagination, and that 
word was " Tournament " ; and he would 
speak of nothing else except the beauty of 
the evening light upon the river, wdiich he 
declared to be " ravishing," and the excellence 
of a certain kind of chocolate which he 
carried in his pocket and shared generously 
with his "dogs." xis he parted with his 
friends the Count tapped his nose and winked 
at them — " Tournament — great, magnificent, 
you will see, ha, ha ! you will see " ; and 
the Sparrow went home in a state of utter 
confusion, coming finally to the conclusion 
that the Count intended to introduce some 
French game, and in that case it would be 
his painful duty to oppose the Count tooth 
and nail, for everybody knew that French 
games were only for girls, and would bring 
endless disgrace upon Muirtown Seminary. 
During Sunday Nestie had turned the matter 
over in his mind, and being full of Scott's 
novels he was able on Monday to give the 
astonished school a full. programme with the 
most minute particnlars. The tournament 
was to be held in the North Meadow ; the 
judge was to be the Commander of the 

cavalry at the barracks ; John McGlashan, the 
town's bellman, was to be herald ; the Fair 
Maid of Perth was to be the Queen of Beauty ; 
and the combatants were to be such mighties 
as Robertson, Howieson, and of course the 
Sparrow. Each knight w^^.s to be in armour, 
and Nestie freely suggested dish-covers would 
be useful as breastplates, broom-handles would 
come in conveniently for lances, and as ponies 
were now forbidden, sturdy boys of the lower 
forms would be used instead. The two 
knights who challenged one another would 
rush from opposite ends of the lists, meet 
in the centre, lance upon breastplate, horse 
to horse, and man to man, and the one that 
overthrew the other would receive the prize ; 
and at the thought of such a meeting be- 
tween the Sparrow and Dune Robertson, each 
in full armour, the delighted school smacked 
their iips^ 

" Muirtown Races 'ill be nothing to it," 
said Ritchie. " Fll lay anybody a shilling 
that Spiug coups (capsizes) Dune the first 
meeting ; but " — feeling as if it were almost 
too good to be true—" I dinna believe a 
word o't. Nestie is a fearsome Mar." And 
after the school had spoken of nothing else 
for a day, Dane Robertson asked the Count 
boldly whether such things were true. 

'' 3Ion ami,''^ said the Count, who had 
tasted Nestie's romance with much relish, 
"you will pardon me, but it is a hanaliU, 
that is what you call a stupidity, to ask 
whether so good a jeu (T esprit is true. 
True ? Truth is a dull quality, it belongs to 
facts ; but Nestie, he does not live among 
facts, he flies in the air, in the atmosphere of 
poetry. He is a raconteur. A tournament 
with knights on the North Meadow — good ! 
Our little Nestie, he has been reading 
' Ivanhoe ' and he is a troubadour." And the 
Count took off his hat in homage to Nestie's 
remarkable powers as an author of fiction. 

" But yes, it will be a tournament ; but 
not for the body, for the mind. My dogs 
are jolly dogs ; they can run, they can leap, 
they can swim, they can kick the ball ; now 
they must think, ah ! so deep. They must 
write their very best words, they must show 
that they have beautiful minds ; and they 
will do so, I swear they will, in the tourna- 
ment, which will not be on the meadow — no ; 
too many cows tliere, and too many washers 
of clothes — but in seclusion, in the class-room 
of that brave man called the Bulldog. It will 
be a battle," concluded the Count with enthu- 
siasm, " of heads ; and the best head, that 
head will have the prize, voila.''^ 

" Silence ! " and Bulldog brought his cane 



down upon his desk; that Wednesday after- 
noon when the whole upper school was 
gathered in his class-room, bursting with 
curiosity. " The Count has a proposition to 
lay before you which he wdll explain in his 
own words and which has the sanction of the 
Rector. You will be pleased to give the 
Count a respectful hearing, as he deserves at 
your hands." And Bulldog was there to see 
that the Count's deserts and his treatment 
strictly corresponded. 

" Monsieur," and the Count bowled to 
Bnlldog, " and you," and now he bowed to 
the boys, " all my friends of the Seminary, I 
have the honour to ask a favour which your 
politeness will not allow you to refuse. Next 
Saturday I will dare to hold a reception in 
this place, with the permission of the good 

Bull I do forget myself— I mean the 

distinguished master. And when you come, 
I promise you that I will not offer you coffee 
— pouf ! it is not for the brave boys I see 
before me, non^'' and the Count became very 
roguish. " I will put a leetle, very leetle sen- 
tence on the " (" Blackboard," suggested 

Bulldog). " Merc% yes, the blackboard ; no, 
the honourable master he will have the good- 
ness to waite it in his so beautiful characters. 
One sentence, that is all, and you will sit for 
one hour in this room where you make your 
studies, and you will write all the beautiful 
things which come into your heads about that 
sentence. You will then do me the pleasure 
of letting me carry home all those beautiful 
things, and I will read them ; and the writer 
who affects me most, I will ask him to accept 
a book of many volumes, and the Lor' 
Mayor" (*' Provost," interpolated Bulldog) 
" wall present it on the great dav in the 
Town Hall. 

" No one, not even the honourable master 
himself, will know that leetle sentence till it 

be written on the — the ■" (" Blackboard," 

said Bulldog, with asperity), "and every 
boy will be able to write many things about 
that sentence. The scholars upon whom I 
do felicitate the honourable master will write 
much learning," and the Count made a 
graceful inclination in the direction of the 
two Dowbiggins ; "and the brave boys who 
love the sport, they will also write, ah ! ah ! " 
— and the Count nodded cheerfully in the 
direction of the Sparrow — " such wonderful 
things. There will be no books ; no, you 
will have your heads, and so it will be the 
fair play, as you say," repeated the Count 
with much satisfaction, " the fair play." 

Bulldog dismissed the school after he had 
explained that no one need come unless he 

wished, but that anyone who didn't come 
was missing the opportunity of securing an 
honourable distinction, and would also show 
himself to be an ungrateful little scoundrel 
for all that the Count had done for the 

" Dod," said Jock Howieson, with much 
native shrewdness, " aifter all his palaver it's 
naething but anaither confounded exercise," 
for that worthy had suffered much through 
impositions, and had never been able to con- 
nect one sentence with another in an 
intelligent manner. " The Dowbiggins can 
go if they want, and they're w^elcome to the 
books. I'm going next Saturday to Woody 
Island — will you come, Spiug ? " And it 
hung in the balance whether or not the 
Count would be openly affronted next 
Saturday, when he found himself in the 
company of half a dozen " swats," while his 
" jolly dogs " were off in a pack to their 
island of romance. 

The Sparrow could not imagine himself 
sitting in a class-room on Saturday afternoon, 
except under brute force, and yet he felt it 
would be ungrateful after all his kindness to 
leave the Count in the company of such 
cheerless objects as the Dowbiggins. The 
remembrance of all the sporting prizes he 
had won at the Count's hands, and the sight 
of the Count cheering at the sports, came 
over his ingenuous heart and moved him 
to the most unselfish act of his life. " Jock 
Howieson," said the Sparrow, with con- 
siderable dignity, " ye may go to Woody 
Island if ye like, but it 'ill be the dirtiest 
trick ye ever played, and I'll black both 
yir een for ye on Monday. Have we ever 
had a match, cricket or football, the last four 
years, and the Count hesna been there ? 
Who got up the sports and gave the prizes ? 
Tell me that, Jock ? Who stands ginger- 
beer at Lucky McCrum's, answer me that, 
Jock, ye meeserable wretch ? " and then 
clinching every argument on " Who paid for 
the broken glass ? I'm doon richt ashamed 
o' ye, Jock Howieson." 

" Will ye go yourself, Spiug ? " demanded 
Jock, rising under this torrent of reproach. 
"I think I see ye writin' an essay on the 
history o' the Romans, or sic like trash. 
Ye 'ill hunt us into Bulldog's class-room^ and 
then go off yirsel to hunt rabbits ; but ye 'ill 
no play ony tricks on me, Peter McGuffie." 

" I will go," said the Sparrow^ manfully, 
" though I'll no promise to wTite." 

" Say as sure*8 death," said Jock, knowing 
the Sparrow's wiles. 

" Sure as death," said the Sparrow, and 

' The Count removed tlie white cloth." 



then the school knew, not only that he would 
go, though he had to sib six, hours instead of 
one, but also that every self-respecting boy in 
the Seminary must also put in an appearance 
at the Count's reception. 

" Best tiling you ever did^ Spiug," said 
Nestle on the w^ay home, " since you pulled 
me out of the Tay, and I should say that 
you have a good chance of the prize. What 
the Count wants is originality, and I never 
heard a chap with so much original talk as 
you've got, Spiug. Just you put some of it 
down, like what you give to the Pennies, and 
you'll come out first, and it'll be the first 
prize you ever won." 

" If there was a prize for impudence, and 
the entries were open to all Scotland," said 
Spiug, " ye would pass the post first and 


was what the school saw on the board when 
the Count removed the white cloth, and then 
he gave a brief exposition of his desires. 

" Have the goodness, if you please, to write, 
not what you ought, but what you want. 
Were you at the cricket match, you will tell 
me of the capture of the wickets ; or you 
were in the country, I will hear of the woods 
and the beautiful pheasants '^ (this delicate 
allusion to Mr. Byles's poaching experiences 
was much appreciated) ; " or you were among 
the books, then you will describe what you 
love in them ; or you were looking at a 
horse, I expect to hear about that horse " ; 
and the whole school understood that this 
was a direct invitation to the Sparrow to give 
an exact picture of an Irish mare that his 
father had just bought. " The subject, ah ! " 
said the Count, '* that does not matter ; it is 
the manner, tlie style, the esprit^ that is what 
I shall value. I wish you all the good success, 
and I will go a walk in the meadow till you 
have finished." 

" Do your best, laddies," said Bulldog, 
" for the credit of the school and to please 
the Count. If I see ony laddie playing 
tricks I'll do my part to teach him sobriety, 
and if I see one copying from another, out 
he goes. Ye have one hour from this 
meemit, make the most o't," and the 
tournament was open. 

Bulldog, apparently reading his morning 
paper, and only giving a casual glance to 
see that no one took advantage of the 
strange circumstances, was really watching 
his flock very closely and checking his judg- 
ment of each one by this new test. Dull, 
conscientious lads like the Dowbiggins began 

at once, in order that they might not lose a 
moment of time, but might put as much 
written stuff upon the paper as possible ; yet 
now and again they stopped and looked 
round helplessly because they had no books 
and no tutor to assist them, and they 
realised for the first time how little they had 
in their own heads. 

" Ha ! ha ! " said Bulldog to himself, " I 
kent ye were naithing but a painted show, 
and it 'ill do ye good to find that out for 

Jock Howieson and his kind regarded 
the whole matter as a new form of enter- 
tainment, and as he could not liave put into 
anything approaching connected words the 
experiences of his last Saturday, he employed 
the time in cutting up his unwritten paper 
into squares of an inch, and making 
them into pellets with which he prevented 
the Dowbiggin mind from being too mucli. 
absorbed in ntudy. He did this once too 
often, and Bulldog went down to call upon 
him with a cane and with plain, simple words. 
" His head is an i^ch thick," said Bulldog, 
as he went back to his desk, " but there's the 
making of a man in Jock, thougli he 'ill never 
be able to write a decent letter to sa\'e his 
life. He would suit the Scots Greys down to 
the ground." 

The Sparrow had given a solemn promise 
to Nestie, under the customary form of oath, 
that he would write something, and whatever 
he wrote lie would hand iii, though it was 
only twenty words, and Spiug never went 
back from his oatli. When Howieson caught 
tlie Dowbiggin ear with a pellet there is 
no doubt that a joyful light came into the 
Sparrow's eyes, and he struggled witli strong 
temptation, and when old friends made 
facetious signs to him he hesitated more 
tlian once, but in tlie end assumed an air of 
dignified amazement, explaining, as it were, 
that his whole mind was devoted to literary 
composition, and that he did not know^ what 
they meant by this impertinent intrusion 
upon a student's privacy. Cosli certainly 
jumped once in his seat as if he had been 
stung by a wasp, and it is certainly true that 
at that moment there was a piece of elastic 
on the thumb and first finger of the Sparrow's 
left hand, but his right hand was devoted to 
literature. The language which Cosh allowed 
himself to use in the heat of the moment 
was so unvarnished that it came under 
Bulldog's attention, who told him that if he 
wanted to say anything like that again he 
must say it in Latin, and that he ought to 
take notice of the excellent conduct of Peter 




"His right band was devoted to literature." 

McGuffie, who, Bulldog declared, was not at 
all unlikely to win the prize. And as the 
master returned to his seat his hack was seen 
to shake, and the wink with which the 
Sparrow favoured the class, in a brief rest 
from labour, was a reward for an hour's 
drudgery. Bulldog knew everybody up and 
down, out and in — what a poor creature Cosh 
was, and what good stuff could be found in 
the Sparrow ; and he also knew everything 
that was done — why Cosh had said what he 
said, and why the Sparrow at that moment 
was lost in study. Bulldog was not dis- 
appointed when Nestie's face lighted up at 
the title of the essay, and he knew why his 
favourite little lad did not write anything for 
■ fifteen minutes, but looked steadily out 
at the window and across the North 
Meadow, and he returned to his paper with 
a sense of keen satisfaction when Nestie at 
last settled down to work and wrote without 
ceasing, except when now and again he 
hesitated as for a word or tried a sentence 
upon his ear to know how it sounded. For 
the desire of Bulldog's heart was that Nestie 
should win, and if — though that, of course, 
was too absurd —the Sparrow by the help of the 
favouring gods should come in second, Bull- 
dog would feel that he liad not lived in vain. 
" Ye have three meenuts to dot your i's 

and sti'oke your t's," said Bulldog, " and the 
Count will tell ye how ye're to sign your 
names," and then the Count, who had come 
in from his walk, much refreshed, advanced 
again to the desk. 

" It would be one great joy to have your 
autographs," said the Count, '' and I would 
place them in a book and say, ' My friends ' ; 
but honour forbids. As I shall have the 
too great responsibility of judging, it is 
necessary that I be — ah ! T have forgotten the 
word yes ! show the fair play. No, I must 
not know the names ; for if I read the name 
of my friend the ever active, the ever brave, 
the ever interesting Sparrow" (at this indecent 
allusion the Sparrow grew purple and gave the 
bench in front of him to understand by well 
known signs that if they looked at him again 
he might give them something to look for 
outside), '' I would say the Sparrow is a 
sportsman, he is not a litterateur, and I might 
not do my comrade the full justice. And if 
I read the name of the composed, the 
studious, the profound young gentleman who 
is before me " (and it was fortunate the 
Dowbiggins had their backs to the school), 
" I would know that it must be the best 
before I read it, and that would not be the 
fair play. 

"No! you will write on your .admirable 
essay a motto — wliat you please— and your 
name you will put in an envelope, so," and 
the Count wrote his own name in the most 
dashing manner, and in an awful silence, on 
a piece of paper, and closed the envelope 
with a graceful flourish ; " and outside you 
will put your motto, so it will be all the 
fair play, and in the Town Hall next Saturday 
I shall have the felicity to declare the result. 
Viola! Has my plan your distinguished 
approbation ? " and the Count made a 
respectful appeal to Bulldog. "Nothing 
could be fairer, you say ? Then it is agreed, 
and I allow myself to wish you adieu for 
this day." 

When the school assembled for conference 
among the Russian guns, their minds were 
divided between two subjects. The first was 
what Spiug had written, on which that 
strenuous student would give no informa- 
tion, resenting the inquiry both as an insult 
to his abilities and an illustration of vain 
curiosity on the part of the school. Nestie, 
however, volunteered the trustworthy infor- 
mation that Spiug had spent his whole time 
explaining the good which he had got from 
being kept in one Saturday forenoon and 
doing mathematical problems under the eye of 
Bulldog. And Nestie added that he thought 



it mean of Peter to " suck up " to the master 
in this disgraceful fashion just for the sake 
of getting a prize. Peter confided to Nestie 
afterwards that he had really done his best 
to describe a close race for the Kilmarnogk 
Cup, but that he didn't think there were six 
words properly spelt from beginning to end, 
and that if he escaped wdthout a thrashing 
he would treat Festie to half a dozen bottles 
of ginger-beer. 

Regarding the winner — for that was the 
other subject— there was a unanimous and 
sad judgment : that Dune Robertson might 
have a chance, but that Thomas John, the 
head of the Dowbiggins, would carry off the 
prize, as he had carried off all the other 
prizes ; and that, if so, they would let 
him know how they all loved him at the 
Town Hall, and that it would be wise for 
him to go home with the Count's prize 
and all the other prizes in a cab with the 
windows up. 

The prize-giving in the Town Hall was 
one of the great events in the Muirtown 
year, and to it the memory of a Seminary 
lad goes back with keen interest. All the fore- 
noon the Provost and the bailies had been 
sitting in the class-room of the Seminary, 
holding Latin books in their hands, which 
they opened anywhere, and wagging their 
heads in solemn approval over the transla- 
tion by Thomas John and other chosen 
worthies, while the parents wandered from 
place to place and identified their sons, who 
refused to take any notice of them unless 
nobody was looking. What mothers endured 
cannot be put into words, when they saw 
their darling boys (whom they had seen 
dressed that morning in their Sunday 
clothes, and sent away in perfect array, with 
directions that they were not to break their 
collars, nor soil their jackets, nor disarrange 
their hair the whole day, or they need not 
come home in the evening) turn up in a 
class-room before the respectable of Muir- 
town as if their heads had not known a 
brush for six months, with the Sparrow's 
autograph upon their white collar, a button 
gone from their waistcoat, and an ounce of 
Sour in a prominent place on their once 
speckless jacket. 

" Yes," said one matron to another, with 
the calmness of despair, " that is my Jimmy, 
I cannot deny it ; but ye may well ask, for 
he's more like a street waufie than onything 
else. On a day like this, and when I see what 
a sight he's made of. himself in two hours, I 
could almost wish he had been born a girl." 
"Losh keep us, Mistress Chalmers, ye 

maunna speak like that, for it's no chancy he 
micht be taken away sudden, and ye would 
have regrets ; forbye your laddie's naithing 
to my Archie, for the last time I saw him, as 
I'm a livin' woman, there wasna more than 
two inches of his necktie left, and he was 
fishing his new Balmoral bonnet out of the 
water- barrel in the playground. Ye needna 
expect peace if the Almichty give ye laddies, 
but I wouldna change them for lassies — no, 
I'll no go that length." 

And the two matrons sustained themselves 
with the thought that if their boys were only 
a mere wreck of what they had been in the 
morning, other people's boys were no better, 
and some of them were worse, for one of 
them had inflicted sach damages on his 
trousers that, although he was able to face 
the public, he had to retire as from the 
Royal presence ; nor was it at all unlike the 
motherly mind to conceive a malignant dis- 
like to the few boys who were spick and 
span, and to have a certain secret pride even 
in their boys' disorder, which at any rate 
showed that they were far removed from the 
low estate of lassies. 

The great function of the day came off at 
two o'clock, and before the hour the hall was 
packed with fathers, mothers, sisters, elder 
brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, and distant 
relatives of the boys, while the boys them- 
selves, beyond all control and more dishevelled 
than ever, were scattered throughout the 
crowd. Some were sitting with their parents 
and enduring a rapid toilet at the hands of 
their mothers ; others were gathered in clumps 
and arranging a reception for the more un- 
popular prize-winners ; others were prowling 
up and down the passages, exchanging sweet- 
meats and responding (very coldly) to the 
greeting of relatives in the seats, for the black 
terror that hung over every Seminary lad was 
that he would be kissed publicly by a 
maiden aunt. Mr. Peter McGuffie senior 
came in with the general attention of the 
audience, and seated himself in a prominent 
place with the Sparrow beside him. Not that 
Mr. McGuffie took any special interest in 
prize-givings, and certainly not because the 
Sparrow had ever appeared in the character 
of a prize-winner. Mr. McGuffie's patronage 
was due to his respect for the Count and his 
high appreciation of what he considered the 
Count's sporting offer, and Mr. McGuffie 
was so anxious to sustain the interest of the 
proceedings that he was willing, although he 
admitted that he had no tip, to have a bet 
with anyone in his vicinity on the winning 
horse. He also astonished his son by offering 

"Peter McGuffic senior seated liiniself in a prominent place with the Sparrow beside him.' 



to lay a soverei\ij:ii on Nestle coming in first and 
half a length ahead, which was not so nnicli 
based npon any knowledge of JSTestie's literary 
qualifications as on the strange friendsliip 
between Nestie and his promising son. As 
the respectable Free Kirk elder who sat next 
Mr. McGulfie did not respond to this friendly 
offer, Mr. McGnffie pnt a straw- in his month 
and timed the arrival of the Provost. 

When that great dignitary, attended by 
the bailies and masters, together with the 
notables of .Muirtown, appeared on the 
platform, the boys availed themselves of the 
licence of. the day, shouting, cheering, 
yelling, whistling, and bombarding all and 
sundry with pellets of paper shot with 
extraordinary dexterity from little elastic 
catapults, till at last Bulldog, who in the 
helplessness of the Rector always conducted 
the proceedings, rose and demanded silence 
for the Provost, who explained, at wide 
intervals, that he was glad to see his young 
friends (howls from the boys) and also their 
respected parents (fresh liowls, but not from 
the parents) ; that he was sure the fathers 
and mothers were proud of their boys to-day 
(climax of howls) ; thafc he had once been a 
boy himself (unanimous shout of "No" 
from the boys) ; that he had even fought in 
a snowball fight (loud expressions of horror) ; 
that he Avas glad the Seminary was flourishing 
(terrific outburst, during whicli tlie Provost's 
speech came to an end, and Bulldog rose to 
keep order). 

One by one the prize- W' inn ers were called 
up from the side of their proud parents, and 
if they were liked and had won their prizes 
with the goodwill of their fellows, each one 
received an honest cheer which was heartier 
and braver tlian any other cheer of the day, 
and loud above it sounded the voice of the 
Sparrow, who, though he had never received 
a prize in his life, and never would, rejoiced 
wdien a decent fellow like Dune Robertson, 
the bowler of the eleven and the half-back 
of the fifteen, showed that he had a head as 
well as hands. When a prig got too niany 
prizes there w^as an eloquent silence in the 
hall, till at last a loud, accurate, and suggestive 
" Ma-a-a-a ! " from Spiug relieved the feelings 
of the delighted school, and the unpopular 
prize-winner left the platform amid the 
chorus of the farmyard — cows, sheep, horses, 
dogs, cats, and a triumphant ass all uniting 
to do him honour. It was their day, and 
Bulldog gave them their rights, provided they 
did not continue too long, and every boy 
believed that Bulldog had the same judg- 
ment as themselves. 

To-day, however, the wdiole gathering Was 
hungering and thirsting for the declaration 
of the Count's prize, because there never 
had been such a competition in Muirtown 
before, and the Count was one of our 
characters. When he came forward, wonder- 
fully dressed, with a rose in his buttonhole 
and waving a scented handkerchief, and 
bowed to everybody in turn, from the Provost 
to Mr. McGuffie, his reception ..was monu- 
mental and was crowned by the stentorian 
approl)ation of tli.e Sparrow's fatliei'. Having 
thanked the company for their reception, 
with his hand upon his heart, and having 
assured the charming mothers of his young 
friends of his (the Count's) most respectful 
devotion, and declared himself the slave of 
their sisters, and having expressed his pro- 
found reverence for the magistrates (at 
which several bailies tried to look as if they 
were only men, but failed), the Count 
approached the great moment of the 

The papers, he explained, upon his honour, 
W'Cre all remarkable, and it liad been im- 
possible for him to sleep, because he could 
not tear himself away from the charming 
reflections of his young friends. (As the boys 
recognised this to be only a just compliment 
to their thoughtful disposition and literary 
genius, Bulldog had at last to arise and 
quell the storm.) 'There was one paper, 
however, which the Count compared to Mont 
Blanc, because it rose above all the others. 
It was " ravishing," the Count asserted, 
" superb " ; it was, he added, the work of 
" genius." The river, the woods, the flowers, 
the hills, the beautiful young women, it was 
all one poem. And as the whole hall waited, 
refusing to breathe, the Count enjoyed a 
great moment. " The waiter of this dis- 
tinguished poem — for it is not prose, it is 
poetry — I will read his motto." Then the 
Count read, " Faint Heart Never Won Fair 
Lady," and turning to the Provost, " I do 
myself the honour of asking your Excellency 
to open this envelope and to read the name 
to this distinguished audience." Before the 
Provost could get the piece of paper out of 
the envelope, the Sparrow, who was in the 
secret of the motto, jumped up on his seat 
and, turning with his face to the audience, 
shouted at the pitch of his voice through 
the stillness of the hall, " Nestie Molyneux." 
And above the great shout that went up 
from the throat of tlie Seminary could be 
heard, full and clear, the view^-hallo of 
Mr. McGuffie senior, who had guessed the 
winner without ever seeing the paper. 


IT WHS John Augustus (.>'Sliea, perhaps 
best known as the Standard war 
correspondent during the Franco- 
German war, who in 1860, by his brilhant 
descriptive letters contributed to that paper, 
called the attention of England to that 
extraordinary representation, the Pansion 
Play, which this year is again being per- 
formed at the small but picturesque village 
of Oberammergau, in the Bavarian Alps. 

Since then the increase of visitors has 
been simply marvellous, and if the national 
crisis does not seriously interfere, it is 
expected that the present year's influx will 
outdo any of the previous ones, at least so far 
as Great Britain's contribution is concerned. 

It is true there was in 1890 a controversy 
carried on in our press for some time as to 
whether the whole Play was not in reality a 
profanation of a sacred subject. I hope to 
be able to show that the very spirit wdiich 
prompts the performance precludes any such 
idea. I quote the great German actor, 
Edward Devrient, who visited the Play just 
half a century ago : "One thing has become 
with me a settled conviction. If I have 
entertained a doubt as to the propriety of 
representing sacred subjects upon the stage, 
all such hesitation has vanished from this 
hour. Here nothing can be considered a 


By a. DE burgh.* 

profanation of our ideal of the Eedeemer. 
On the contrary, the picture which I had 
hitherto endeavoured to represent to my 
mental vision of the Bon of God taking a 
visible form and acting His part on the 
theatre of the world, in the midst of His 
friends and opponents — this picture reap- 
peared at Ammergau and, deprived of its 
drama-like vagueness, assumed all the vigour 
of life and reality. I beheld for the first 
time the God-Man as a pilgrim on the earth. 
In His triumphant entry into Jerusalem, 
when the multitude hailed Him with shouts 
of Hosanna ! I read on His brow that His 
thoughts were turned far from the present 
scene of jubilation in order to contemplate 
the completion of His sacrifice on Calvary. 
Knowing that the torments and the ignominy 
of the Cross were a necessary part of His 

* Copyri.sclit, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 





Heavenly Father's scheme of salvation, He 
kept aloof from the sentiments of the excited 
multitude, and was no more allured by their 
songs of triumph than He was afterwards 
dauntad by their persecution, abuse, and 
blasphemy. He knew that He must be 
betrayed, denied, abandoned by all, mocked, 
scourged, crowned with thorns, and crucified. 
It was by means, of the village tragedy 
that I confronted these great truths of 
revelation. 1 then felt how deep is the 


wound which has been inflicted by humanity 
against its Ideal. The tragedy was more 
powerful than word or painting." 

I quote Mr. Devrient so fully because I 
have so frequently heard words to the same 
effect as the outcome of the impressions 
received by those who have seen the Play, 
and I therefore take it for granted that in 
the judgment of the great majority the 
performance is in no way profane. 

The people of the village who comprise 

the actors and actresses look upon this per- 
formance as a rehgious service, a labour of 
love, and their great training-school has 
always been the Church, with its impressive 
Catholic ceremonial, its processions, its 
music and song. The chief manager is the 
village priest, and every performance begins 
with prayer, when the whole company may 
be seen kneeling behind the drop-curtain. 
Before the great work commences the players 
partake most solemnly of the Holy* Com- 
munion, and prepare themselves 
in this wise for their difficult 

Although the Passion Play is 
performed but once in ten years, 
the 'people nevertheless rehearse 
to a certain extent their parts 
during the annual festivals of 
their Church ; thus, for instance, 
the procession wliich takes place 
on every Palm Sunday equals 
as a dramatic scene Christ's 
triumphal entry into Jerusalem 
when performed at the Play. 

The Passion Play of Ober- 
ammergau dates as far back as 
1634, having been performed 
ever since in consequence of a 
solemn vow made by the com- 
munity under the following cir- 
cumstances : In 1633 a terrible 
pestilence broke out in the dis- 
trict ; a neighbouring village 
suffered so much that only two 
married couples were left. 
Although the strictest pre- 
cautions were exercised, the 
plague was introduced into Ober- 
ammergau and spread with such 
fearful rapidity that eighty-four 
persons succumbed within a 
month. Then the villagers 
assembled and vowed that, if 
the pestilence would disappear, 
they would perform the Passion 
Tragedy in thanksgiving every 
tenth year. From that time, 
the legend tells us, not one more died of the 
plague. In 1634 the Play was performed 
according to the vow, and since 1680 it has 
been repeated with a few exceptions every 
tenth year. 

This was the origin of the Oberammergau 
performance, but the Play is of a much 
older date, and in the neighbouring Tyrol it 
has been given as far back as the thirteenth 

I have had a chance, rarely granted to 



anyone outside the Church, to glance over the oldest existing text-book, dated 1662, whicli 
refers to a still older book. From this most interesting document I could see that the Play 
has undergone very great changes and improvements. In the olden times the Devil was 

allotted an important part 

in the tragedy, and was 

ever on tie stage ; for 

instance, he used to dance 

about Judas, and when the 

betrayer hanged himself, a 

host of imps would rush 

upon the suicide. All this 

is now entirely banished 

from the Oberammergau 


During the last forty 

years the Play and its stage 

have been greatly improved 

*^\W 14 \ \'W ^^^ perfected, which is 

X^kAi^-Wi II partly due to the interest 

m\ I A I \- ^^^ ^^^^ King Ludwig II. 

of Bavaria took therein. 
ST. THoivTAs Thc performauccs of 1870 st. vkikm. 

were suddenly ended by the 
outbreak of the Franco-German war, when no less than forty of the men and youths of 
ximmergau had to join the colours, among them being several of the actors. Joseph Mayer, 
who had taken the part of Ciirist, was one of those who had to go to fulfil their military 
duty. Of those who marched out of the village to fight for their country six never returned, 
two fell in battle and four died in hospital ; among the victims was Alois Lang, who had 
undertaken a principal part in the Passion Play. When the war was ended, a repetition of 
the Play was given in 1871, as the villag3rs' method of thanking God for victory and peace. 
Originally the performance took place on Sundays and fete days only, and the cemetery 




sniTouiiding the cliiirch formed both the 
stage and and it or in m. To-day there is a 
large stage, and this year for the first time 
visitors will find a covered anditorium, which 
has been constrncted at a cost of £10,000 
in order to protect the andience from the 
inclemencj of the weather. It is a gigantic 
but severely simple hall, sixty feet high, and 
consists of six iron arches with a span of 
nearly one hundred and thirfcy feet. It will 
comfortably hold four thousand people. 

While thus the auditorium is completely 
under shelter, the stage and proscenium 
remain, as hitherto, quite open, and valley, 
mountain, and sky still form the background 
to tlie solemn drama. 

As regards the Play itself, it appears that 
the year 1850 saw the dawn of a new epoch. 

week of December of the year preceding the 
Play. There are about two hundred and 
sixty parts, including minor roles^ and at 
some scenes nearly five hundred persons 
appear on the stage. 

Naturally the most important part is that 
of Christ, and few men have the bodily 
strength to meet the physical requirements 
of the part. Joseph Mayer, who fulfilled this 
role in 1880 and 1890, is six feet in height 
and of splendid physique ; nevertheless he 
often fainted when suspended on the cross. 
He is now fifty- two years of age, but although 
he is in admirable health he feels he has not 
strength to go through the ordeal again, 
much as he would love to do so. 

Photographs of the players are never 
allowed to be taken before the performances 


The village priest, the Eev. Daisenberger, a 
great enthusiast, undertook the important 
charge of educating his parishioners up to 
the level of their dramatic vocation (in 
ordinary life the inhabitants of Oberam- 
mergau are farmers and wood -carvers). He 
organised rehearsals, invited the actors to his 
house, where they had first to read their 
parts and then recite them, and he taught 
them to act. His w^ork was crowned with 
success. Ever since that period the Passion 
Play has enjoyed uninterrupted prosperity. 

The selection of those who take the various 
parts in the Play is a task of great import- 
ance. It is carried out by a committee of 
forty-five householders, under the presidency 
of the priest. The election day is in the last 

begin, but as the costumes remain always 
the same, w^e reproduce three of the principal 
figures of the Play of 1890 — among them, 
Joseph Mayer, as Christ ; Rosa Lang, as the 
Virgin Mother ; Bundle, as Pilate ; and 
others of the devout participants in former 
representations of the World's Tragedy, 
many of whom are to undertake the same 
roles this year. 

The progress made in the Passion Play of 
Oberammergau was due to a great extent to 
the monks of the neighbouring monastery of 
Ettal, who took it early under their protec- 
tion. The monastery, as such, is no more, 
the monks have disappeared, but the church 
and building are among the many beautiful 
relics that have been handed down to us 




from the Benedictine fraternity. I found, in 
looking through the archives of Kothenbuch, 
another monastery in the neighbourliood, 
that Oberammergau in tlie seventeenth cen- 
tury stood under its pastoral charge, and 
therefore the village is doubtless indebted for 
the origin of the Play to the monks of the 
latter. My impression, founded on various 
indications, is that to Rothenbuch must be 
given the credit of having lirst prepared 
the text and introduced the religious drama 

into Oberammergau, and that Ettal took, 
later, the guidance of any existing dramatic 
elements into its own hands. When in 1803 
the property of the suppressed Bavarian 
monasteries was put up at auction, costumes 
used in the religious plays were sold, and the 
community of Oberammergau purchased from 
Ettal a number of dresses, some of which are 
still in use. 

When the public theatre is taken down at 
the end of the great decennial season, the 


After the celebrated painting by Raphael. 





stage itself still remains, and preparations 
are made for a number of other dramatic 
subjects, partly secular, partly religious, 
which the villagers perform. 

I cannot strongly enough contradict some 
statements I have met with in the press to 
the effect that the Passion Play is simply a 
money-making affah*. It is utterly untrue. 
The villagers treasure the Play as a precious 
heirloom, and its performance is a labour of 
love. They have over and over refused the 
most tempting offers to perform in England, 
America, Germany, and Austria. The bulk 
of the money gained is devoted to charities 
and municipal expenses, and individually the 
actors lose in neglected work more than they 
are paid for their participation in the Play. 
Not one of the players receives more than 
£20 for the whole time he is acting. 

I shall now endeavour to give a short 
sketch of the great Passion Play itself, not 
m easy task when considering the wide scope 

and the many ingredients 
which make up the whole. 
The Play, which this year 
will be performed twenty- 
seven times— namely. May 
24th and 27th, June 4th, 
10th, 16th, 17th, 24th, and 
29th, July 1st, 8th, 15th, 
18th, 22nd, and 29th, 
August 5th, 8th, 12th, 15th, 
19th, 25th, and 2Cth, and 
September 2nd, 8th, 9th, 
IGth, 23rd, and 30th— be- 
gins each day at 8 a.m. and 
lasts until 5.30 p.m., with an 
interval of one and a half 
hours for lunch. 

Every day on which the 

Play is performed (usually 

Sundays and Church festival 

days) is announced to the 

thousands of visitors in the 

following solemn manner. 

Precisely at seven o'clock 

on the preceding evening 

the musicians assemble at 

the end of the village, and, 

headed by the fire brigade 

in uniform, they strike up 

a stirring march and parade 

the village. On the day of 

the Play the visitor is 

awakened at five in the 

morning by the booming of 

cannon, followed at seven 

by the band marching 

through the village streets. 

The stage has been so frequently described 

til at I do not intend to enter into details, 

more especially as the photograph which we 

reproduce gives a good idea of its general 

appearance. The manager and inventor of 

all the wonderful sceneries in the Munich 

Opera House is the architect. Where twenty 

years ago one saw but crude form and colour, 

the eye now meets with artistic outlines and 

tones which are in full harmony with the 


Tiie full depth of the house is about two 
hundred and twenty feet, the width one 
hundred and twenty-five feet, the stage 
proper is about fifty feet deep, and the pro- 
scenium is twenty-four feet deep. 

The stage is divided into five distinct 
places of action for the players : first, the 
proscenium, for the chorus, for processions 
and the like ; second, the central stage, for 
the tahleavx vivants and the usual dramatic 
scenes ; third, the palace of Pilate ; fourth, 







trf^*«> iSp 

the palace of Annas ; and fifth, the streets 
of Jerusalem. 

Each of tlie eighteen acts or divisions, 
containing a series of dramatic scenes 
complete in itself, is prefaced with one or 
more tahleanx vivants of prophetic Old 
Testament tjpes, and an explanatory dis- 
course in song of what is going to happen 
during the coming act. To my mind the 
tableaux are the gem of the performance, and 
I am glad to be able to giv^e my readers 
three photographs representative of the 
best— namely : " Christ's Farewell Before 
Journeying to Jerusalem," "The Crucifixion" 
(after Raphael), and " Christ Leaving the 
Tomb." In order more fully to understand 
the Play, I quote a remark made by the 
village priest, who was the manager in 1890. 
He said : " Our main object is to represent 
the story of Christ's Passion, not by a mere 
statement of facts, but in its connection with 
the types and figures and prophecies of the 
Old Testament Many of the inci- 
dents in the lives of the ancient fathers bear 
a striking and obvious resemblance to various 
parts in the life of Christ, and set forth the 
sufferings, and death, and resurrection so 
minutely that the Evangelists continually 
mention some prophecy which was fulfilled." 

The chorus of the Guardian Angels 

(Schutzgcister) is a simple adaptation of the 
corresponding part of the classic theatre to 
modern use. The chorus at Oberammergau 
consists of eighteen Grenii, with a leader who 
is styled the Prologue or Choragus. They 
wear dresses of various colours, over which a 
white tunic and a coloured mantle are worn. 
They advance from the recesses on either 
side of the proscenium and take up their 
position across the whole extent of the 
theatre, forming a slightly concave line. 
The Choragus recites an opening address 
which introduces each act ; this is taken up 
by the chorus, who sing till the curtain is 
raised and the tableau vivant is shown. At 
that moment the chorus divides and its 
members stand to the right and left of the 
central stage. 

An English lady gives her memories of 
the chorus in the following words : " And 
whilst they sang our hearts were strangely 
touched, and our eyes wandered away from 
those singular peasant angels and their 
peasant audience up to the deep, cloudless 
sky ; w^e heard the rustle of the trees and 



caught glimpses of the mountains, and all 
seemed a strange, poetical dream." 

The space at my disposal is quite in- 
adequate to give even a brief recital of the 
action as it proceeds during the Plaj, and I 
will come at once to the climax. On all 
previous occasions the chorus have appeared 
clad in their many-coloured robes. In the 
sixteenth act, however, they have donned the 
garb of mourning. The Choragus addresses 
his verses to the spectators, accompanied by 
soft, sad music. 

During the singing of the Chorus- Angels 


heavy hammer blows are heard behind the 
Bcenes. The executioners are nailing Christ 
to the cross. Then the curtain slowly 
ascends. Before the aAvestricken audience 
there is revealed the scene on Calvary, tlie 
most intense and most realistic picture of the 
whole performance. On the ground, with 
the head sliglitly raised, is a larger cross than 
the two already erected on which hang the 
malefactors. On this Christ is nailed. A 
soldier takes the inscription and nails it to 
the cross above Christ's head, and then he 

calls his companions, who raise the cross to 
an upright position. The actors in the scene 
take up their positions at either side of the 
crosses, while Christ's friends are seen in the 
distant background. The impression created 
is intensely affecting. Of course the whole 
story as related in the Gospel is now acted, 
Christ remaining in this position for quite 
twenty minutes. After the death-scene the 
earth quakes, the thunder rolls, and darkness 
spreads over all the stage, the conclusion 
being the descent from the cross. 

Before taking leave of my readers I shall 
say a few words as to the routes by which 
Oberammergau may be reached. One is 
from Munich to Oberan by railway and 
hence by carriage ; the other, which certainly 
is by far the most beautiful and picturesque 

route, is 
from Inns- 
bruck, the 
capital of 
Tyrol, so 
and pleas- 
ant in sum- 
m e r and 
winter, so 
healthy and 
so well pro- 
vided with 
able, and 
hotels. For 




many years Innsbruck lias been a fayonrite resort of English tourists, and when looking oyer 
the books of the Hotel Tyrol, one of the finest and best conducted hostelries in South 
Germany, I was not surprised to find registered the names of many people well known in 

England. The tour, which 

can be made by carriage, 

on horseback or cycle, 

occupies not quite twelye 

hours, and the trayeller 

passes through scenery un- 
surpassed for beauty and 

wildness. The way leads 

through Zirl, Seefeld, Mit- 
ten wald, Partenkirchen, 

and from there to Oberan, 

from which place a visit to 

the magnificent castles of 

the late King Ludwig 11. 

of Bavaria, Neu Schwan- 

stein and Linderhof, may 

easily be paid. To men- 
tion but a few of the 

many interesting spots the 

traveller passes on this 
route : there is the pass near the now ruined Castle of Fernstein, called the Pernpass, a 
favourite spot of the late Ludwig II. ; and, in addition to this, one should not miss the very 
picturesque villages of Mittenwald and Lermos, comfortably nestling between high 




JAMES TILLEY and Susan his wife 
looked upon their one son, Eaymond 
Granville, as the child of their old age, 
sent to them as Isaac was sent to Abram and 
Sarai by the especial favour of Heaven. 
James was only forty-two and Susan a year 
older when the son came, but they had been 
married twenty years, lacking five months, 
and, save for a girl that came in the third 
year of their marriage, and lived five days, 
they had had no other child. 

Mrs. Tilley had decided what the boy's 
name should be long years b3fore he was 
born. She often sat, her hands npon her lap, 
lost in reverie, and always recovered herself 
with a show of cheerful vigour. 

"Jim," she would say, " iv we ever do have 
a bwoy he shall be called Raymond Granville. 
They be two zo pretty names as I knows.'' 

" Iv you'll be quick and have a bwoy,'' 
James once retorted with surprising humour, 
" you can call he Nebuchadnezzar Joshophat, 
iv you be zo minded." 

Mrs. Tilley did not tell her husband that 
she had decided on Raymond Granville after 
long and critical consideration of the rival 
claims of Archibald Phihp Blowham, 
Augustus Herbert Simpson, Clare Arthur, 
and Percy Ewart Simpson, Blowham being 
her own maiden name and Simpson the 
maiden name of her mother. When she 
was alone in the liouse she would call 
upstairs to her imaginary child — 

*^ Percy Ewai% come doivn, my love,'' or 
'^Raymond Granvilhy it is time to yet yp.'' 

* Copyright, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 

x4.nd, again, she would hold converse with 
an imaginary visitor — 

"What a fine boy, Mrs. Tilley I tvhat is 
his name .^ " 

" Augustus Herbert Simpson, ma'ams 

Or, again, she would be present at Sunday 
School on the prize day™ 

" First Prize — Archibaii Philip Blowham 
Tilley.. Come forward, Archibald.'''' 

From these practical tests Raymond 
Granville emerged triumphant. 

It may sound intensely foolish ; neverthe- 
less Mrs. Tilley was not at all a silly woman. 
In the first years of her wedded life she had 
brooded and grieved in secret over her child- 
lessness, at times having a morbid dread that 
her husband's affection miglit be alienated, 
and the consideration of a suitable name for 
the son it might please God to send her took 
her from her sorrow more than her duties or 
converse with her neighbours. 

" It bain't voolishness," she told her 
husband. " Iv we did happen to get a bwoy, 
and no name ready, I might put meself all in 
a stew at choosen a prapper name. There 
be Mrs. Daw made herself reel ill over 
namen her maid and not been in one mind 
two days runnen." 

Her prayers were answered at last ; but 
Raymond Granville was not a model baby, 
nor even up to the average of our village ; 
and neighbours and friends could not go 
into ecstasies about his prettiness, or strength, 
or plumpness. He came into the world a 
puling, ailing infant, and took none of his 
infantile difficulties with philosophical calm 
and ease, and many times it seemed as though 
his bodv w^as too frail a tenement for a living 




spirit. But still he was the deepest joy of 
his parents. Daily Mrs. Tilley thanked God 
for him, and never repined because, as the 
profane writer has it, the gods never give 
with both hands. His moderate intelli- 
gence was magnified into abnormal cleverness 
by his parents' fond hearts. Mrs. Tilley was 
determined he should not be a farm hand, 
and so, poor lad, because fresh air and out- 
door life were the only medicines for his 
delicate constitution, he was put into a 
grocer's shop in Dorchester. The frugal 
couple out of twelve shillings a w^eek had 
saved twenty pounds, and hoped to save 
thrice as nmch in the neit dozen years 
if the two sows did their duty, and it 
was the mother's dream to put him in a 
shop of his own by the time he reached 
his majority, and to see him a leading 
townsman, and perhaps mayor, before he 
died. Thus do mothers dream, and, thank 
God, they find comfort and compensa- 
tion in their dreams for the sorrows of 

It must not be supposed, however, that 
Mrs. Tilley was concerned only with her 
son's advancement in wealth and honours. 
She knew he was a good lad. The Yicar 
had told her himself that Raymond always 
knew his Catechism perfectly when the 
Sunday School was examined, and he always 
had his Collect learnt off by heart by the 
middle of the week, and repeated it to her 
every evening. Besides that, he read a 
chapter of the Bible to her every day, and 
she assured her friends that our Vicar himself 
couldn't read it better. Yes, Raymond was 
a good lad. 

" Iv the Lord," she said to the pastor one 
day, " was a long time in zenden en to we, 
zir, He was good enough to pick out one ov 
the best, and I thank Him vor it." 

At eighteen Raymond was a tall, lanky 
youth, with a pale, freckled face, tired- 
looking eyes, shaky knees, and the beginnings 
of a cough. He came home every week-end 
as joyful as though he had been absent a 

Almost as soon as he entered his mother 
would mysteriously whisper, " Have 'ee made 
any mwore thease wik, my dear ? " and 
Raymond would beam with intensest pleasure 
when lie could, and that was nearly always, 
nod in assent. Mrs. Tilley shared in a 
wonderful secret that was not as yet even 
revealed to the father. Raymond Granville 
TilUy lurote poetnj. 

Raymond had just turned sixteen when he 
took his mother into his confidence. It was 

her birthday, and he had composed a poem 
of three verses in honour of it. He copied 
it out in his best handwriting, placed it in 
an envelope, addressed it to "Mrs. Tilley, 
White Cottages," and placed it on the mantel- 
piece where she would be sure to see it directly 
she came down in the morning. Raymond 
Granville had given his mother many 
moments of deep joy, but never joy as 
profound and exquisite as that. The first 
verse ran — 

O mother, dear, I love thee well, 
, I love thee more than tongue can tell ; 
God give thee many happy days, 
And 1 shall always sing thy praise. 

Mrs. Tilley wept, and took her boy in her 
arms and kissed him, and then held the 
poem before her at arm's length, whilst tears 
of joy so exquisite and pure rolled down her 
cheeks that the angels might have gathered 
them as choice jewels, meet to adorn the 
gates of the New Jerusalem. 

" You never wrote all thease yourself, my 
bwoy ? " she cried. 

" Yes, I did, mother. I did it all in a 
week. I don't know myself how ever I did 
come to do it, except I was alius fond of 
potry. Now, take that first word ; you might 
think it be spelt wrong. Now, how do you 
spell it ? " 

" O^h, I z'pose." 

" Yes, you would, now, wouldn' 'ee ? But, 
do 'ee see, in potry you alius ought to spell 
it like that — just letter 0. If you couldn' 
tell by the verses and the capital lettei's, you 
could tell it be potry by that letter. And 
there be another thing. You do say ' thou ' 
and ' thee ' in potry, instead of ' you.' It do 
sound more like potry. Not that ' you ' would 
be wrong, but it hain't as poetical." 

" It be wonnerful, my darlen. I don't 
believe there be anybody in thease place can 
make potry. In fact, I be sure ov it. 
Passon hisself couldn', I know," in a tone of 
proud con viction. 

" Then you be pleased with it ? I thought 
as you might be." 

" Pleased ? " cried Mrs. Tilley, and again 
she took her son in her arms and wept over 

It was agreed it should be kept a secret 
from the father, for a time at least. There 
was no particular reason for it, save that to 
them, as to many people who lead humdrum 
lives, the poorest secret is a treasure, and 
that Mrs. Tilley was afraid her husband, 
who had no taste for verse, might show no 
great enthusiasm at being the father of a 



A week or two later Mrs. Tilley's joy was, 
if possible, intensified. Raymond allowed 
her to read two verses of a hymn he had 
partly composed. The rhyme and rhythm 
were halting, and Raymond's hymn will 
never be found in a hymn-book, but it 
uplifted one woman's heart to a jubilant 
Magniflcaf, and many hymns of faultless 
rhythm and more perfect phrasing have not 
accomplished so much. 

" But you didn' write that yourself ? " she 
cried, that she might have the luxury again 
of being assured that she w^as wrong. 

" Yes, I did, mother." 


" Reg'lar as a clock, mother," he replied. 
" It hain't much of a cough." 

So great was her anxiety that his con- 
science pricked him, and at last he confessed. 
" Do 'ee see, I have made a verse or two, but 
I didn' think you'd care for 'em. They — 
they hain't hymns," and Raymond tried to 
laugh, but his face burnt so vehemently that 
the tears came in his eyes. 

" Now, don't 'ee gwo vor to think that, my 
bwoy ; 1 don't expect 'ee alius to make 
hymns. Let I zee 'em." 

" I know you won't care for 'em, but you 
can read 'em if you like," and attempting 

" ' It be about a maid, I zee,' she said slowly, the faintest trace of hostility in her tone." 

" Well, there hain't a better hymn in the 
hymn-book. It ought to have a toon made 
vor it and be put in a hymn-book." 

So it went on week after week, and there 
was always at least a verse for the mother's 
heart. But at last, one Saturday near Easter- 
tide, when he came home, he blushed and 
shook his head when his mother asked 
if he had anything for her. The next 
week it w^as the same, and it w^as with 
some difficulty he, succeeded in convincing 
her that he w^as not ill. 

" I hope you will get rid ov thik cough 
thease spring, Raymond. Do 'ee drink that 
stuff reg'lar I made 'ee ? " 

another laugh he took a gilt-edged card from 
his pocket-book and handed it to her. 

" How pretty you have wrote it," she said 
as she adjusted her spectacles. "It be zo 
plain as print. I zee at wunst it be patry, 
'cos you have got letter there ; I haven' 
vorgot," and to his manifest discomposure 
she proceeded to read it aloud. 

lovely form, with eyes so blue, 
Your heart is sweet and tender and true ! 
To be close to you, and your lips to kiss. 
Would surely be the height of bliss. 

Mrs. Tilley looked up curiously. " It be 
about a maid, I zee," she said slowly, the 
faintest trace of hostility in her tone. 



"Yes." Raymond Granville tried to 
laugh. At first he had blushed, but his 
emotion was now beyond blushing ; his face 
was grey. 

" Ees, I zee it be," repeated Mrs. Tilley, 
and resumed lier reading. 

No maid with Rosie can compare, 
For she is of beauty rare. 
Of all the girls that I have seen 
Rosie of them all is queen. 

Before Mrs. Tilley could make any 
comment Raymond broke in nervously, 
" They hain't bad verses, I 'low. Don't 'ee 
think so, mother ? " 

" Oh, ees, it be good potry. It do come zo 
easy off the tongue," she said rather 
grudgingly. The best of mothers never 
hears without a pang of a possible rival in 
a son's affection. " But — but who be Rosie, 
that it be about ? " she asked. 

" Oh, do 'ee see, mother, when you do 
WTite potry you can put in any name you 
like," he said, with another burst of nervous 
laughter. "Just what name do strike 'ee, 
do 'ee see, as will be easy to rhyme. I 
might just so well have put Mary or Sarah 
or Martha, but — but that one do sound 
prettier, don't 'ee think ? " 

"It do sound pretty enough. But, 
serious, my bwoy, hain't there zome maid 
you be vond ov down to Dorchester ? " 

Raymond at last said there was a nice, 
lady-like maid that came to the shop. But 
he w-asn't courting. 

" I — I do hope she be a good maid," said 
Mrs. Tilley with difficulty. 

" Oh, she's real good, mother ; that was 
what made I take to her. She do go to 
church reg'lar, and only last Tuesday when 
she come in for some eggs she told I about 
the beautiful sermon Mr, Perrett, down to 
St. John's, did preach last Sunday. She did 
know the text and a good deal of the sermou. 
' Oh, he's mich a beautiful preacher,' she did 

Mrs. Tilley nodded approvingly. " What 
be her name ? " 

" Let I see, now ! Agnes ? Ada ? No 
— oh, Annie — Annie Lesby, I believe." 

" I used to know some Lesby^, Piddleham 

" Did 'ee, now ? " said Raymond. But his 
conscience was dominant, and rather painfully 
he yielded to it. " She have another name, 
haven't she ? " he said musingly. " Oh, yes, 
to be sure — R. A. Lesby. Ruth or Rose 
the R do stand for, I think." 

Mrs. Tilley restrained herself from making 
the obvious rejoinder, " I thought so." 

Although the mother of one child, love had 
made her wise. " What do she do, Ray- 
mond ? " she asked. 

" Oh, she be the housemaid with old Mrs. 
Parr, mother." 

" Have 'ee made it up with she, my 
bwoy ? " 

" Me ? No," and then the floodgates 
were up and Raymond poured out the whole 
story. Rosie sometimes came to the shop 
and he had the good fortune to serve her, 
and latterly he had gone once a week to the 
house to take orders and Rosie had chatted 
to him quite pleasantly. But one evening 
when the shop was closed he was taking a 
walk on the Weymouth Road wlien he 
happened to meet her— quite by accident, he 
was careful to explain. " I said," went on 
Raymond, " wdiat a nice evenen, and how 
fresh things did look after the rain ; and we 
talked for a bit. She did say she was goin' 
to the week-night service, she did enjoy Mr. 
Perrett's preach en so. And I said 1 should 
like to hear him, I did so enjoy a good 
preacher ; and she laughed a bit and said I 
was very welcome to go with her if I liked. 
Mr. Perrett preaclied such a nice sermon — 
and it was very nice, I quite enjoyed it. I 
— I couldn' do no less than walk with she 
back to the house after. And tliis week I 
went with her agen." 

" But haven' 'ee told the maid you do like 
her ? " 

"No," said Raymond Granville. "Do 
'ee " 

" But you do like her, my bwoy ? " 

" Oh, just about ! She be such a nice 
maid, and such a good maid, too, do 'ee see, 

" Well, I should like to zee she," said 
Mrs. Tilley, determined to make the sacrifice 
unniggardly. "You must ask she here to 
tea next Zunday ; I should like to zee her. 
Zay I should be glad to give her a cup ov 
tea if she will come, and make her welcome. 
.... I hope she be a good maid." 

" Oh, she be, mother, a real good maid — 
and pretty, too. I know you'll like her," 
and Raymond kissed his mother in affec- 
tion and gratitude. 

Raymond Granville had promised his 
mother with glad enthusiasui that he would 
ask Rose to visit her ; but the following 
morning when he went back to Dorchester 
he saw difficulties. How could he ask her 
wlien they were not engaged ? He blushed 
hotly at the thought of it. He could not 
very well say, "I've told mother you're a 
nice, good maid, and she do want you to 



come to tea next Sunday, and if slie tliinks 
you'll do, then we'll get engaged." Even 
supposing, which was wildly improbable, she 
consented without asking embarrassing ques- 
tions, everybody who saw them would sup- 
pose they were engaged, and how awkward 
it would be if she refused him. 

Eaymond was occupied with the problem 
all day. He at last came to the conclusion 
that there was only one honourable and 
satisfactory way out of the difficulty. Before 
he asked her to go home with him he must 
propose to her and be accepted. Unfortu- 
nately, proposing was not one of the easiest 
things in the w^orld, and he lay awake for an 
hour or two elaborating ingenious schemes 
for " Proposing made Easy." 

He Avas very gloomy at breakfast next 
morning, but in good spirits a little later 
when it occurred to him that he could propose 
by letter. In his dinner-hour he went out 
and bought a sixpenny " Complete Letter 
Writer," and turned to the section on " Love, 
Courtsliip, and Marriage." There were three 
model letters on " How to Propose," but 
Raymond was disappointed with them. After 
long consideration, however, he adopted the 
form, though not the phraseology, of the 
first model letter of proposal, which had for 
sub-title, " To a lady who you think will 
look favourably on your suit." 

Raymond devoted nearly two hours that 
evening to the composition of the letter, 
and made it doubly secure in the envelope 
by a prodigal display of sealing-wax. 

" Dear Miss Lesby " — it ran— 

" I hope you will not think it too 
bold of me to write this here letter to you, 
for it is not boldness but affection that makes 
me do it. How I feel about you I can never 
tell, but I will say this much, that I 
never seen no female that I like so well as 
you ; in fact, if I may say so without giving 
offence, I do love you truly, and I should be 
real glad to w^alk out with you. I can't tell 
you how much I think about you all the day. 
I don't know if you care for me at all, but 
if you do, and are willing to walk out with 
one who is fonder of you than tongue can 
tell, please come to the railway-station gates 
to-night at seven o'clock. If you come, I 
shall know that it is all right ; if you don't, 
I don't know how I shall get on. Nobody 
could be so fond of you as me, although I 
have seen you so few times. 
" With best respects, I am 

" Yours, very truly, 
" Raymond Granville Tilley." 

Lover-like, he was full of doubts and fears 
when the letter had gone. He blushed hotly 
at the thought that she might laugh at it 
and show it to her fellow -servants. He 
dreaded the meeting, and wondered why he 
had been such a fool as not to ask for an 
answer by letter. 

He got there at last, and almost at the 
same instant Rose came up, out of breath 
with hurrying, but with joy written in every 
line of her face. " Good evenen," she said. 

"Good evenen," he said, quite pale now.. 
" You did get my — my letter, then ? " 

" I never felt so took back in all my life," 
said Rose Ann. " I had to read it three 
times afore I'd believe it. I felt so happy 
I didn' know what to do with meself. ' To 
think that he cares for I,' I said to meself." 

'' Then you — you did like it ? " asked 
Raymond, raising his eyes to her face. 

" I shan't say," laughed Rose Ann ; but 
Raymond had seen her face, and there was 
no need for words. 

They walked on. Rose Ann talking 
volubly. She carefully explained that she 
w^as dusting the drawing-room when the cook 
came up and said there was a letter for her. 
" I said it could u' be for I," went on Rose 
Ann ; " but it was, and I sat down straight 
in the middle of my work and read it and 
read it again. I couldn' tell you how I've 
felt about it all day. ' To think he do care 
for I,' I" did say." 

"I do care for you, just about," said 

" My folks will be pleased — I mean my 
brother and his wife, and my sister Charlotte. 
I haven' got no father and mother." 

"I be sorry for that," said Raymond 
sympathetically. " My— my mother will be 
pleased, too. I told she I'd had an eye on a 
maid, but I'd said nothen yet. ' Well,' she 
says, ' you'd better speak to she at once, for 
you have to bring her to tea here next 
Sunday.' I declared I couldn', but she 
wouldn' hear of * No ' at all. It be your 
Sunday out, I know, and I shall wait for 
you, my dear, and drive you out Sunday 
afternoon to our place." 

Rose Ann stopped and eyed him with a 
most severe frow^n. " Of all the impudence 
I ever did hear I " she cried. " Do you 
think, Mr. Tilley, I could go visiten your 
folks and only engaged this evenen ? Don't 
you think it, for I couldn' on no account." 

Raymond had written poems about 
maidens, but he had still something to learn. 
His face fell and he blushed at his own 
audacity. Rose Ann, however, was quick to 



perceive that he had taken it literally, and 
hastened to explain. " I should be so shv, I 
shouldn' know how to face them," she said. 

" Oh, but you could," he rejoined eagerly. 
" I know, my dear, that mother will take to 
you at once." 

Rose Ann was sure that she could never do 
it ; but there, she would go through fire and 
water to oblige Raymond ! Raymond was 
sure she would say she had had a real good 
time, and he should be there with her. 

They sat down and spoke of their likes 
and dislikes. Rose Ann, to Raymond's 
intense joy, was fond of poetry. 

" I w^as alius one for potry," she said. " I 
know, I med say without boasten, hundreds 
of lovely verses. If ever I see any nice verses, 
I can't rest till I've learned 'em. ' Now, then,' 
father used to say to home Sunday evenens, 
* now then. Rose Ann, just say we some 
potry,' and I did straight away." 

" I — I like potry," said Raymond, his 
voice tremulous from sheer joy. " How 
queer it be that I should find you out, my 
dear, when we both do like the same things !" 

" I took to you, my dear, from the very 
first," Rose responded. 

" I feel very thankful we two met, my 
dear," said the lad, with strong feeling, and 
quite suddenly he kissed her passionately. 

It w^as so unexpected that Rose Ann's face 
and neck flushed and tingled with sudden 
heat, and she shrank from him slightly. 
Raymond looked scared. " I hope you — you 
didn' mind ? " he said, fearing that he had 
made a hopeless blunder. 

" It took I by — surprise, do 'ee see," said 
Rose Ann, with her head bent down. " But 

don't think I — I did — hke it — just 


Raymond laughed in high relief. " I 
thought you would," he" said. " Here's 
another, and another, and another." 

Rose Ann had sufficient wisdom to 
recognise that sweetness and goodness are 
not as likely to strike a stranger at first 
sight as a pretty face and becoming attire, 
and she took extraordinary pains to make 
a good impression. One of her chief 
attractions was her luxuriant browm hair, 
but after spending nearly an hour in dress- 
ing it, she had to call in the cook to do it 
for her. Her frocks gave her as much 
trouble, and after trying three skirts, two 
bodices, and three blouses, in different com- 
binations, she came to the cook's opinion that 
the black merino skirt and white muslin 

blouse, with two red roses on her bosom, was 
the most becoming. Her hat gave her even 
more trouble than her frock, and it was only 
after trying all she had, and one of the cook's, 
that she finally decided on the straw with the 
pink feathers and ribbon. And when at last 
she surveyed the tout ensemhle in the mirror, 
and saw hoW' painfully flushed her face was 
with her exertions, tears of vexation came 
into her eyes, and she told her reflection she 
" looked a perfect fright, and for two pins 
she wouldn' go." When Raymond called 
for her, however, his sincere admiration re- 
stored her to a pleasant frame of mind. 

" My ! " he said, " you do look real pretty, 
my dear ; white do become you first-rate. I 
know^ mother will be taken with you, my 

" I feel that nervous about it I can't tell," 
she said. " I feel so sure as sure your 
mother won't like I." 

" Now, don't, my love," said Raymond, and 
left the horse to itself w^hile he pressed the 
maiden's hands between his. " Don't you 
trouble, my love. I know you and mother 
will get on famous." 

It was well that Mr. Fielder had only 
trusted Raymond Granville with his " cour- 
ten boss." Mr. Fielder so styled that aged 
and trustw^orthy animal because it plodded 
along at six or seven miles an hour, regard- 
ing neither whip nor caresses, and was 
startled at nothing. Neither traction-engine, 
locomotive whistle, nor even crackers could 
arouse it from its philosophic calm. " I 
know," Mr. Fielder would say in explanation, 
" w^hat a young veller driven out a vemale 
be. He do want a boss that don't need no 
looken avter whatzoever, 'cos when nobody 
be about he do want to kiss and cuddle she. 
I once did let a young veller have a spirited 
young boss to take his gal out, and thik trap 
did come back with one shaft and no splash- 
boards, and you couldn' see the young chap 
vor sticken-plaster. Now, ' Lovey ' w^ouldn' 
shy iv you let dynermite off under her nose ; 
and when a young veller comes I alius 
whispers very perlite, ' Gwain to take the 
young lady out ? ' and when he says he be, I 
alius gives en ' Lovey.' " 

Raymond was as nervous as Rosie when he 
drew up at the garden-gate where Mrs. Tilley 
w^as awaiting them. He jumped down and 
kissed his mother and then helped Rosie to 
alight. " This be Rose Ann, mother," he 
said. Mrs. Tilley apparently had not be- 
stowed more attention on the girl than 
politeness required, but her eyes were shar- 
pened by jealous love for her son, and 


r/-. - ':-V- 


"'How be, my dear?'" 



Raymond knew that she had ah^eady weighed 
his darhng in the balances. He could have 
shouted for joy when Mrs. Tilley smiled 
sweetly on the girl and, saying, "How be, 
my dear ? " kissed her. It was all right, it 
was all right, and overflowing with happi- 
ness he flung his arms about his mother and 
kissed her again. 

Mrs. Tilley conducted Rose Ann upstairs 
to take off her things, and, to Raymond's relief, 
they came down laughing and chatting to- 
gether, and he could see that his beloved had 
been accepted with cordiality, at least. The 
kettle was boiling, and there was no oppor- 
tunity for private talk before they sat down 
to tea. Rose Ann, with a woman's intuition, 
praised the raspberry-and -currant jam — it 
was well-deserved praise — inquired how it 
was made, and finally, with much diffidence, 
asked for the "receipt" for the cake, of 
which she had two helpings, that she might 
give it to her sister-in-law. 

What is man's diplomacy to woman's ? 
Rose Ann had found her way to the inner 
chamber of Mrs. Tilley's heart. She called 
her son into the kitchen. 

"What I've zeen ov her she be a very 
nice maid," she whispered in his gratified ears. 
Mother, Raymond, and Rose Ann took a 
walk till the hour for service, but Raymond, 
to his infinite content, had little part in the 
conversation, and lingered behind that they 
might talk unrestrainedly. 

Mother was glad that Raymond had made 
so sensible a choice, though she didn't mind 
confessing that for a time she was the leastest 
bit afraid he might be deceived. 

" But now I have zeen 'ee, my dear — well, 
I did never think I could take to anybody 
zo quick. I hope you both may be happy 

" Thank 'ee," said Rose Ann. Her ears 
were not the acutest, but when Mrs. Tilley 
went on to speak of her son's character, she 
was conscious of an indefinable something in 
the mother's tone that made music. Poor 
and rustic as Mrs. Tilley's vocabulary was, 
at that moment she could have stood beside 
the mightiest wielders of the English tongue 
and shamed them. For she spoke with an 
imperial, a celestial accent, her words dyed 
through and through with the purest and 
holiest passion that can inflame the human 
heart-— maternal love. 

" What do 'ee think 'bout his potry ? " 

asked Mrs. Tilley. " Do 'ee like it ? " 

" Potry ? I don't know what you do mean." 

" Haven' he told you, my dear ? " And 

Mrs. Tilley entered into the details with zest. 

" Yerses about I ? " exclaimed Rosie. 
" Well, there ! " 

Raymond's delight was exquisite when he 
confessed his gift of poetry to his mother, 
but, perhaps, the most blissful moment in his 
life ^vas when, after delicious persuasion, he 
showed Rosie the metrical expression of his 
love f jr her. He had copied all that she 
had inspired in a little pocket-book which 
he carried in his waistcoat pocket. Poetical 
diamonds, they deserved a fair setting, and 
Raymond had spent hours in ornamenting 
each page with fancy scroll-work. 

" I don't know whether to let you see 
them, my dear," he said, as he opened the 
book. "None of 'em be up to much." 

" How can you say it, my darlen ? " said 
Rose Ann, in the tone"^ of one who is listening 
to blasphemy. 

" Well, but don't say you like 'em if you 
don't, because I shan't mind, my dear, one 
little bit," and Raymond read softly that 
passion-laden lyric, " lovely form, uith eyes 
so l)luey 

" You didn' write that about I ? " 
asked Rose Anne in a whisper, her eyes 

" I did ; I wrote it that evening when I 
spoke to you outside the church. I went 
for a walk* by myself and thought it all out 
then. It did come itself, most of it." 

" Rosie of them all is queen,'' she repeated 
softly, with tears in her eyes. " I — I — do 
'ee see, I bain't worthy— I did never think " 
— and she took the book from him ^ and 
kissed the page passionately, then kissed 
Raymond. " If everybody was so happy as 
I, it would be like heaven," she said softly. 

That year the winter came early, with 
many days of biting east wind in November, 
and 'Raymond, in spite of the thick winter 
flannels his mother made for him, and the 
big bottle of linseed tea, sweetened with 
Spanish liquorice, he carried from home 
every week, could not escape a bad cold, 
which settled on his chest. His cough 
alarmed his mother, but he laughed at her 
fears and declared that he might as well 
go to the doctor as take back every week 
four sorts of home-prepared medicines and 
a heavy load of advice. Nevertheless, 
he dutifully obeyed her instructions and 
swallowed the concoctions as regularly as he 
would have done had his mother's eye been 
upon him. It was early in December thafe 
Raymond's conscience troubled him over a 
lie he told his mother, although he 



as3iired himself that for her sake he was 
justified. She suddenly accused him, on no 
other ground but that of maternal intuition, 
of spitting blood, and he denied it thrice. 
The truth was, it had occurred three times 
that week. 

Eose Ann came to spend Christmas Day 
with the Tilleys, and on Boxing Day Ray- 
mond was to go with her to be introduced to 
her brother and his wife. He was in extra- 
ordinary good spirits on Christmas Day, but 
the next morning it was obvious he was too 
unwell to accompany Eosie, though he tried 
to disguise his indisposition and insisted that 
it was only a '* bit of a headache."" The 
truth w^as he had caught a fresh cold on his 
journey home late on Christmas Eve, and 
Mrs. Tilley, greatly alarmed, called in the 
doctor. Our doctor has been with us many 
years, and he calJs himself the physical 
pastor of our village. In appearance he is a 
rough, burly farmer, brusque in manner 
and fiery in speech. He is terrible to those 
who do not obey his orders, and can draw 
from a vast reservoir of profanity. But at 
heart he is a Christian gentleman, who 
counts a patient's life more than lucre, and a 
mother's gratitude more than reputation. 
He knew^ Mrs. Tilley's heart was bound up 
in her son ; he had brought him into the 
world and knew all his constitutional weak- 
nesses. When Mrs. Tilley, with scared face, 
asked him if it was serious, he roughly told 
her not to be a fool — couldn't a boy have a 
bit of a cold without all that fuss ? 

" But he— he is spitten blood, doctor ; I 
zeen it thease marnen." 

" And what if he is ? " asked the doctor 
sarcastically. " Spitting quarts of it every 
day, I suppose ? Just go and make some 
mutton-broth ; he'll have no blood to spit 
up if you neglect him this way." 

He had touched her rightly, he knew-, but 
he shook his head as he strode down the 
road. He met the Yicar coming out of the 
schools and stopped him. 

" You've something before you, Monsal, 
I'm sorry to say," he said. " You'll have to 
try to comfort a mother's heart when her 
one lamb is taken." 

" Who ? " asked the Yicar. 

" That poor lad of Tilley's. He's always 
been a weakly little beggar, but the finishing 
touch has come. Consumption," 

" You haven't told her, Westacofct ? " 

"I'm not an utter fool, for one thing, and, 
for another, I couldn't. Thank Grod that 
is not my province I " 

Eaymond sent a message to Mr. Kelvvay 
that he had caught a bad cold, and was not fit 
for work for a day or two. The followirg 
week he had to send a similar message, and 
thereupon Mr. Kelway came to see him and 
brought him several delicacies. Before he 
returned home Kelway saw Dr. Westacott, 
who confirmed his suspicions that Eaymond 
would never serve in his shop again. 

" I be thankful, my bwoy," said Mrs. Tilley, 
when with the IS ew Year came a long spell 
of severe weather, "I be 0^ thankful you 
bain't well enough to gwo to work thease 
weather. You'll be all the better vor resten 
now, and all the stronger w^hen spring do 

" Yes, I never did like cold weather," said 
Eaymond, and turned again to the poem 
on ''Christmas" he was composing. All 
the day long he was in the throes of com- 
position, and in his poetical ardour almost 
forgot his ailments. That we had a poet in 
our village was no longer a secret, as Mrs. 
Tilley in her pride and joy could no longer 
hide it from her neighbours. When a 
neighbour looked in to see how the " pore 
bwoy be," Mrs. Tilley in a confidential 
whisper would ask her " not to speak loud, 
as Eaymond was just maken a lovely verse, 
and talken put en off." 

" Yery creditable indeed," was our Yicar's 
verdict when he had read the verses. He 
lout Tennyson and Longfellow and other 
poets to Eaymond, and pointed out their 
beauties to him. 

" Tliey be better poetry than mine," said 
Eaymond to his mother, " though with 
practice I might do as good some when." 

" Yours be the best by a gurt lump," said 
Mrs. Tilley. " Why, zome ov thease bain't 
poetry ; it don't rhyme at all." 

Jaiuiary was a month of frost and snow. 
February brought chill and drear rains, and 
Eaymond, though his spirits never failed him, 
did not get stronger. But with the balmy 
days of spring, as his mother insisted, would 
come new life and strength. 

" You'll be stronger than ever after thease," 
Mrs. Tilley prophesied daily, and Eaymond 
cordially agreed. 

" I shall fly round like a young horse," he 

Eaymond wrote to Eose Ann once a week, 
and every Sunday she came to see him. It 
was, I think, the sweetest and tenderest love 
story of our village. Eose Ann wa^i in full 
bloom of health and radiant maidenhood, 
but her tenderness to her sick king, who was 
also poet, w^as beautiful to look upon. 



'You didn' write that ubout 1?' asked Rose Ann in a whisper, 

Mrs. Tilley had taken tlie girl to her heart 
as her own daughter. It wonld be altogether 
fatuous to speculate as to which loved the 
boy most, but he passed his days in an 
atmosphere of love and devotion. It was a 
privilege to see the joy and pride of Rose 
Ann when allowed to minister to him. 
Every time she came she was allowed to 
make a milk pudding or other delicacy for 
him, and he always ate every scrap of it. 

He could not over- 
come his repugnance 
to cod-liver' oil, and 
was inclined to be 
rebellious w^hen the 
nauseating dose was 
placed before him. 
But when Eose Ann 
poured it out, tasted 
it, laughingly pro- 
nounced it good, and 
promised him three 
kisses, he swallowed 
it with a smile. 

Sunday afternoon 
and evening was 
given up to them for 
" courten." They 
w^ere happy, smiling 
lovers, building their 
future home and fur- 
nishing it, down to 
the saucepans in the 
kitchen. Theirs was 
to be an ideal home, 
and it was in tensest 
pleasure to reckon up 
the probable cost of 
a nest that would 
satisfy such happy 
birds. Raymond's 
chief est joy would be 
to sit with her in the 
evenings, reading to 
her or writing poetry. 
Rose Ann knew that 
she should be locking 
forward all day to 
his coming home. 
They should want no 
visitors, save, of 
course — and they 
both blushed and 
laughed softly ^ — the 
visitors with tiny feet 
and clambering 
limbs, a girl first and 
then a boy. Foolish 
lovers, who saw not 

the shadow of the wings of the dread angel. 

Yes ; but where love is, and hearts as the 

hearts of little children, there is the Kingdom 

of Heaven. 

The warm days of May came, but they 
brought no strength, and one day Westacott 
sent the Vicar with the death-warrant. Mrs. 
Tilley's anguish was too intolerable to 



witness. When Mr. Monsal was gone she 
went to her bedroom and, with tears of 
agonising entreaty, prayed that her boy 
might be spared to her — her boy, who was so 
clever and good. " He be a real good bwoy, 
Thou do know, Lord, as has tried to serve 
Thee faithful, and he used his gift inmaken 
hymns. God, spare en, vor Christ's sake." 
Til en her prayer would become more rebel- 
lious, and she told her God that it was not 
fair to take him when he was so clever and 
good. " He be the ordy one I have, dear 
Lord," she said, " and there be plenty as 
have too many. Let him be, Lord." 

It was a Saturday when she knew, and slie 
saw little of her boy that day because she 
could command neither her tears nor her 
voice. The next day Rose Ann came in 
good spirits, because Raymond, in his mid- 
week letter, had been very cheerful, and, as 
is common with consumptives, was sure he 
was mending. Mrs. Tilley could not give 
the girl more than a glance when she entered, 
and returned her greeting by a nod. She 
was near breaking out into a storm of tears, 
but by an agonising effort commanded 
herself. A great rush of pity filled her 
heart, and, putting her arm round Rose 
Ann's waist, she led her into the garden. 

" My dear," she said, " it be vor the best, it 
be vor the best— the Lord have let I zee it 
be vor the best. You mustn' vret, my 
dear ; but he bain't gwain to get better, do 
'ee zee. You must zee it be vor the best, 
like I— like I do. The Lord's will be 
done ! " 

Rose Ann looked into her face with terri- 
fied eyes, and the mother took the girl in 
her arms and held her to her breast and 
murmured words of consolation. Thank 
God ! many a woman's heart is saved from 
breaking because she has others to comfort 
and sustain, and in pouring balm finds an 
anodyne for her own gaping, wound. It is 
divinest pity, the more lavishly poured forth 
the richer the giver. 

"... He will have—to be told, my 
dear. . Will you tell en ? " 

" I can't ; I don't know," sobbed Rose 
Ann. " I don't think I can." 

" It be a hard thing to do," said Mrs. 
Tilley ; " but I will let you do it becos I 
love 'ee, my dear. If he had — had lived you 
would have been his wife, and it be a wife's 
place to be closest to her husband in joy and 
in trouble, my dear." 
" You—be his mother." 
'' x\nd yours, too, I liope, my dear. But 
you be his wife avore the Lord." 

^ Mrs. Tilley would not allow Rosie to see him 
till she had washed her swollen eyes and had 
command of her tears. "You'll be calm, vor 
his sake, my dear," said Mrs. Tilley, who felt 
just then beyond tears or cries, and every- 
thing but a dead hopelessness ; " and you'll 
show en that it be the Lord's doens. He'll 
p'raps grieve 'cos he haven't lived to write a 
hull book ov potry like they other writers ; 
but you med tell him that p'raps the Lord be 
taken him to write verses in heaven. It 
med be " — and as the thought struck her 
the withered, sallow face lighted up for a 
moment, and was as the face of one who 
from the mountain top has caught a glimpse 
of the Land of Promise — " it med be the 
Lord wants en there to make verses vor the 
angels to zing ; and iv it be zo I won't 
grudge him to the Lord vor an instant. 
P'raps when I do come vor to go, they'll 
come zingen a hymn he have made." And 
then her lips quivered and her eyes filled ; 
but wdien she saw Rose Ann was weeping 
she dried her tears on the instant and 
begged the girl to cease. " It will upzet en 
zo iv he do zee we be taken it hard." 

It seemed to Rose as though some malign 
influence were compelling him to speak so 
that every word might inflict well-nigh in- 
tolerable anguish upon her. He dwelt with 
fondness on every incident in their intimacy, 
and passed on to speak of their future, which 
was to be one long dream of happiness. 

" You'll be Mrs. Tilley then, my dear, and 
somebody of importance, look see. We are 
goen to have tw^o boys and a maid, aren't 
us ? Only the boys shall be stronger than 
me, look see, my love. Plenty of milk, and 
fresh air and playen games be the things for 
maken boys strong. And the maid — what 
be the matter, my darlen ? " 

Raymond had broken off in alarm. Rose 
Ann's face was death -like with suppressed 

She could contain herself no longer. "Oh, 
my dear darlen," she cried wildly, " my pore 
love, it do break my heart to hear 'ee." 

" Why, what ? " and then in a flash 

came knowledge, and he lay back gasping. 
. . . . " Bain't — bain't I goen to get better, 
Rosie, dear ? " 

She shook her head. 

" Oh — h — h ! " he said slowly^ and then 
slie flung her arms about him and they wept 
together for a long time. 

Raymond was the first to speak. " Pore 
old Rosie," he said softly, " pore old mother, 



" The mother took the girl in her arms and held her to her breast." 

pore old father ! . . . Mofclier said notlien " Now, don't take on, my darlen, don't. 

to I." ... I did think I shonld live to write a lot 

" She couldn', my darlen. She be " of potry. . . . But it don't matter ; p'r'aps 

" It do seeai strange, don't it ? " he said I should never be strong. . , . Ask mother 

again musingly. "Pore little darlen Rosie!" to come up." 

" I can never li\^ without 'ee," she The two women cried in each other's arms 

sobbed. . for some minutes before they entered the 



sick-chamber. The boy looked up in his 
mother's face with a brave smile, and Mrs. 
Tillej flung herself with an agonised cry on 
her knees beside him. 

" Pore old mother ! " he said, gently 
patting her. " Now, don't take on so ; it 
hurts I to see it, and I want to say some- 

With an effort that almost killed her 
Mrs. Tilley restrained her tears and looked 
upon her son. 

" Look see, mother," he said, " pore Rosie 
have got no father or mother, and soon you 
will have no boy. I wish you'd take her for 
your own." 

" She be my own now. Zee, my bwoy, 
thease be my daughter," and going up to 
Kose Ann she took her in her arms and 
kissed her. 

For the next fortnight Raymond got 
steadily weaker, and Rose Ann got leave of 
absence that she might always be with him. 
It was her supreme privilege to sit by his 
side with pen and paper, and write down the 
verses he persisted in composing. He lay 
sometimes for an hour thinking out a single 
line, and would wearily complain that his 
mind was lazy. He began many different 
poems — " To a Robin," " Description of Our 
Village," " Snow," and others— but they 
were never completed. There was one poem, 
however, at which he worked every day, and 
his joy was great when at last, a week before 
he died, it was finished. It was his " swan- 
song," and the first two verses follow — 

O mother, dear, grieve not for me. 
Because in the grave I soon must be ; 
Let not your tears be seen any more, 
I'm going to a happier shore. 

O darling Rosie, do not weep, 
For in the grave 1 soon must sleep ; 
A happy life together Ave planned. 
But Tm going to the Better Land. 

One day, after he had been lying silent for 
nearly two hours, he called Rose Ann to him. 
" I've been thinken, my darlen," he said, 
" in a year or so you must find a nice feller 
and marry him." 

'' No, no, no," cried Rose Ann. " I shall 
never marry .nobody now^ ; I couldn'. Don't 
talk about it, my love ; it hurts I." 

" But you must, my dear. I've been 
thinken it over. You'd never choose a man 
as wasn't nice, but when a nice one wants 
you, you must marry him. When I can look 
down and see you happy with somebody, it 
will please I more than anythen." 

Mrs. Tilley came into the room, and 
Raymond appealed to her. " Mother, Rosie 
do say she'll never marry now, but she must 
if a very nice young man do want her to. 
You'll persuade her to it, mother, for I wish 
it. It won't be slighten I — it'd be selfish of 
I to wish anythen else. She'll never forget 
me, I know." 

" I couldn' marry anybody now," cried 
Rosie in great agitation. 

" You'll promise, mother ? " persisted 
Raymond. " She be going to live with you 
till then, but you'll do all you can to find a 
nice, good young man for she ? " 

" I promise, my bwoy," said Mrs. Tilley. 
" She be my daughter and zoon will be my 
son's widow, and I shall treat she like a 

Raymond died three days later, on a 
glorious afternoon. Rosie sat by his side, 
holding his hand. She thought he was 
asleep, but Mrs. Tilley coming in gave a 
strangled cry and kissed the dead lips. 
Mother and daughter wept together for a 
space, and then they knelt beside the bed 
and Rosie softly repeated the dead poet's 

©tdereD to tbe ffrout. 

By Bertie Boese. 




By Philip Gibbs. 

Illustrated from Photographs by J, A. Potrell, 

THERE are comparatively few people 
who have any definite knowledge of 
the condition and capabilities of the 
blind. The avera<re person is apt to regard 
them simply as 
beings to be 
pitied, shut off 
from all the 
joys of life, 
utterly incap- 
able of doing 
anything for 
themselves or 
anybody else. 
Even people 
with large 
hearts, always 
ready to sym- 
pathise with the 
sorrows of their 
fellow beings, 
are apt to think 
of the blind as 
only worthy 
objects of their 
charity, with- 
out realising 
that they may 
be educated to 
become useful 
members of 


society. Fortunately, in spite of the general 
ignorance and indifference on this matter, 
there have been, and still are, a select few of 
ardent and unselfish spirits who have re- 
cognised that persons without sight, even 
fr(»m ])ii'lli, nuiv lie given the privileges of 
jigliei' education, ;md by careful training 

may be taught 
many profes- 
sions and trades 
by which they 
can support 
themselves and 
I) e enrolled 
a m n g the 
world's workers. 
A visit to 
such an in- 
stitution as the 
school at Swiss 
Cottage, main- 
tained by the 
London Society 
for Teaching 
the Blind to 
Eead, would 
do much to 
dispel the 
hazy ideas 
that* are 
extant with 



regard to the helplessness of the Wind. The 
first thing wiiich astonishes a visitor, who has 
come with a heart full of pitj, is the general 
happiness and even joyous air which seems 
to pervade the place. On a Saturday after- 
noon, for instance, wiien the students have 
free time, the grounds are full of merry girls 
skipping or running about, so that it is almost 
impossible for a sighted stranger to realise 
that they are blind. On the afternoon when 
the writer visited this school the girls were 
sitting in the grounds in horse-shoe form, 


knitting, sewing, playing chess or draughts, 
while their mistress, Miss Hay, was diverting 
them wnth sprightly gossip. A general buzz 
of chatter was maintained, interrupted now 
and again by a merry peal of laughter from 
the girls. On no face w^as there a sign of 
unusual sadness. 

In the boys' playground the same cheerful 
air prevailed. A game of cricket was in 
progress among three or four younger boys, 
and they seemed to enjoy it as heartily as 
any Eaglish schoolboy. Truly a strange 
sight ! How did these sightless youngsters 

know when and where to hit or throw the 
ball ? 

It is difficult for a sighted stranger to 
refrain from exclamations of astonishment 
at many of the things he sees done by the 
inmates of this institution, but there is a 
thoughtful notice in the hall and other 
places which requests visitors not to speak of 
the pupils' blindness in their hearing. Un- 
fortunately people do not always observe 
this rule. Miss Hay, the head mistress of 
the school, tells the story of a lady who 
stood in front of one of the blind 
girls, and, after gazing at her for 
a moment with mingled compas- 
sion and disgust, turned away 
with a shudder, and said, in a 
loud voice, " Poor thing ! what a 
horrible sight ! " 

Still less considerate than this 
was the remark of another lady 
who evidently considered herself 
a philosopher of the Stoic school. 
She met the Sunday procession 
of blind boys on their way to 
church, and with considerable 
emotion exclaimed to her hus- 
band, " Good Heavens, my love ! 
Better shoot them at once ! " The 
boys heard this remark and, 
doubtless to the lady's surprise, 
burst into peals of laughter. 

Not more sensible are some of 
the questions asked by charitable 
visitors. " How do the blind 
eat ? " " Can they find their 
way to their mouths ? " "Do 
the blind wash themselves ? " — 
these are some of the queries 
which may be heard on visiting 

Some questions certainly frame 
themselves in the mind of any 
intelligent visitor to this school 
when he finds that the students 
possess a good elementary educa- 
tion, and that many of them read and enjoy 
such difficult literature as that of Carlyle 
or Thackeray, and can write intelligently on 
any ordinary subject of composition. How 
is it, one may ask, that a child blind from 
birth or babyhood can obtain any truthful 
idea of the world around it, of complicated 
forms and things which it can never see, nor 
smell, nor even touch, as castles, bridges, 
hills, or trains ? How is it that without 
ever having seen a house, a tree, a horse, 
or one of their fellow beings, they can yet 
realise and enjoy the humours of a novel bj 




Charles Dickens, or talk intelligently upon 
any ordinary subject ? 

Even teachers of the blind cannot answer 
these questions fully. They can only tell 
you that their pupils learn to build up ideas 
by a comparative system through the medium 
of touch. But they 
will tell you also 
that this does not 
account for all 
their ideas, and 
that they seem to 
possess a percep- 
tion beyond that 
obtained through 

Of course, a col- 
lection of models 
is one of the best 
means of giving 
the blind accurate 
ideas of the world 
around them. A 
lump of soft clay in 
the hands of a 
capable teacher can 
easily build up 
miniature hills and 
valleys, castles with 
battlements, and 
other objects of 
Nature or man's 
handicraft, and the 

imagination of the 
pupils can magnify 
these to the re- 
quired size. 

At the Blind 
School at Swiss 
Cottage the boys 
themselves are 
taught clay-model- 
ling under the able 
guidance of the 
head master, Mr. 
Corbett Dyer. It 
is really remarkable 
to see the ingenious 
and intricate models 
which the boys 
build up. One of 
their latest achieve- 
ments is a model 
which they call 
Portsmouth Har- 
bour. It is built 
in a large zinc tray 
half filled with 
w^ater and is a 
capital imitation p^ a harbour with ports and 
towers. One of the boys, whose father is a 
boat-builder, has constructed some excellent 
clay boats, which float about the " harbour " 
to the delight of the sightless modellers. 
It was unusually pretty and interesting to 




watch one of these boys modelling a hand 
from a plaster copy. He was stroking the 
cast with the tips of his fingers, lightly 
feeling the bumps and indentations, and the 
general contour, so that his mind should have 
an exact idea of the subject. Then he deftly 
reproduced his idea in clay, and in all respects 
it was an admirable and exact copy of the 
plaster hand. 

Of course, one of the earliest steps in the 
education of the blind is to teach them to 
read. When once they can do this they 
possess the key to all the knowledge which 
the human mind can achieve without the aid 
of sight. Many ingenious systems have been 
invented to convey printed characters to the 
minds of sightless people. The most popular 
at the present day is the Braille system, which 
is the one in use at Swiss Cottage Blind 
School. Louis Braille, the inventor of the 
system, was born at Coupvray, near Paris, 
in 1809. He lost his sight at the age of 
three, and when he was nineteen he entered 
the Institution Nationale des Jeunes Aveugles 
at Paris. Here he distinguished himself as 
a pupil and afterwards became a professor. 
He learnt to read every system of blind 
characters then invented, but he recognised 
that all of them were faulty. He laboured 
to invent a simpler system which the blind 
could not only read easily, but might also 
write in relief. This he at last accomplished 
by the beautiful and ingenious system which 
bears his name. By various combinations of 



six dots raised upon a plain surface, all the 
letters of the alphabet and many combina- 
tions and contractions are represented, and 
an ordinarily intelligent pupil finds no diffi- 
culty in learning to read and write by this 

At the Blind School at Swiss Cottage the 
boys learn to print their own books. It is 
exceedingly interesting to watch one of these 
blind printers. He has a thin sheet of brass, 
folded in two, which is fixed into a wooden 
frame. On this is placed a movable metal 
guide with oblong 
holes large enough 
to allow six dots or 
dents to be punched 
in the vacant 
spaces. On each of 
these spaces above 
the metal the 
printer punches, by 
means of a blunt 
awl and a hammer, 
the dots which 
correspond to the 
letter required. 
When the metal 
sheet is covered 
with these dots it 
is taken from the 
frame and placed 
in the printing 
press. A sheet of 
cartridge paper is 
placed over the em- 
bossed metal in the 
same way as it would 



cover a stereo-plate 
on an ordinary 
printing machine. 
The pressure of the 
paper against the 
embossed metal 
causes it to be 
covered with a cor- 
responding impres- 
sion of dots. By 
means of these dots 
or " bumps " the 
blind student is 
provided with a 
perfect substitute 
for the letters of 
the ordinary 
sighted rea'der. 
The writing is done 
in the same way, ex- 
cept that the holes 
are punched in the 
paper without the 
backing of metal, 
and of course no 
printing press is 
required. Among 

^„^^ ^ the books printed by 

the blind scholars at this particular school 

are the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, 
History of England. 

and a 





At this institution is pro- 
duced one of the most ex- 
traordinary magazines in the 
world. It is edited, written, 
and printed by blind boys 
and girls. Some of the 
contributions are not only 
remarkable, considering the 
difficulties under which their 
authors labour, but are excel- 
lent in themselves. We do 
not think the readers of the 
Windsor will begrudge the 
space occupied by the follow- 
ing extract from this school ^ _ 
magazine when they reflect 
that the author, Miss Jessie Collins, is a 
young girl who has been blind from her 
early childhood — 

Europe has many beautiful mountain ranges, but perhaps the two most magnili - 
cent are the Pyrenees and the Alps. 'I'he Pyrenees are situated between France 

and Spain and have verv picturesque scenery. Their lofty peaks are covered with a cold mantle of snow, while m 
green contrast their sides are clothed with large forests of pine, oak, chestnut and beech. But, beautiful as these 
mountains are, thev seem a mere nothing beside the solemn grandeur of the Alps. Great travellers have, by art and 
poetical language, tried to awaken in us the feelings of ecstasy and awe which they themselves experienced whilst 

gazing on their majestic heights. 
^^i^-v.^ -.■>m^^^4*;T-'-^r^^ Seen bv daylight the aspect of the Alps is stern and cold, with nothing to break 

'W&-^^^^^-^^>A«fr' ^^ the dreary monotony of broad sheets of ice and snow. Far up the mountains the 
M,^ i ' jifc - -"- 41 j^^ig Alpine primrose lives its solitary life, with no one to behold its simple beauty 
but its Creator. 

Let us turn from this picture of solitude and view the Alps in the early morning. 

It is a glorious sight to see peak after peak light up with the soft colours of the 

rising sun, while the valleys below are wrapped in shadows. Gradually the splendour 

brightens, turning the glaciers into crowns of sparkling diamonds worthy to adorn 

the hoary heads of these mighty kings of solitude. 

We cannot wonder that Europe rejoices in the pride and 
magniticence of the Alps, and that the great Aurora should 
enthrone herself on their mighty summits and clothe them in her 
brightest glory. 

Can anyone read this pretty piece of 
imaginative writing without marvelling that 
a sightless person can gain such vivid ideas 
of the beauties of Nature, never having seen 
them except by the eyes of fancy ? 

Many of the pupils at this school are 
taught music, and they have achieved an 
excellent standard of proficiency. When the 
writer of this article visited the school, two 
young musicians were performing in the 
large concert-room, which is provided with a 
magnificent organ and a " Broadwood " which 
cost three hundred guineas. A boy was 
seated at the organ, making the noble instru- 
ment throb with a flood of solemn and 
glorious music. Then a young girl filled the 
room with a thousand sweet harmonies from 
the piano. As her fingers swept hghtly over 
the keys a bright beam of sunshine fell 
upon her uplifted face and fair hair, and 
without sentiment it may be said that a 
liush of awe came upon the hearers, as 
they watched the look of joy upon the 




delicate features of the blind girl and 
listened to the cascade of silvery notes struck 
by her fingers. 

Many of the students are taught piano- 
tuning, and this knowledge enables them to 
earn their living in after-life when they have 
to leave the friendly shelter of this benevolent 

This particular school at Swiss Cottage is 
more a general educational institution than 
one for teaching definite trades to the 
blind. In spite of this, however, the girls 
are taught sewing, knitting and crochet- work, 
rope-making and chair-caning. Some of 
their specimens of needlework are almost 
miracles of w^orkmanship, considering their 
authors. The most intricate and beautiful 
patterns are produced by these afflicted girls 
with as much perfection as by the most 
competent of sighted needlewomen. 

The trade specially taken up by the men 
is basket-making, and some of them are 
employed as paid craftsmen in this capacity 
when they are too old to remain in the school 
as pupils. From the accompanying photo- 
graphs it Avill be seen that want of sight 
does not prevent them from making the 
most elaborate and complicated articles of 
basket work. 

Many othei; things are to be seen at this 
admirable institution, all of which go to prove 
that the blind may be trained to become most 
useful members of society, and that they can 
appreciate the privileges of higher education, 
and can learn trades and professions by 
which they may earn their livings creditably 
and happily. All honour to the men and 
women who have founded and who maintain 
such noble institutions as the Blind School 
at Swiss Cottage. 

"when the flowing tide comes in. 
Fi'om a photograph by the Woodbury Permanent Photographic Co. 


By K. Anning Bell. 

h^ 'iif^^^ ^'^i'C -/;'. 

Illustratpd })ij 

Adolf Thiedo., 

WE were a party of four young fellows 
in the Quinta Bella- Vista, a lonely, 
rambling country-house situated 
in the wildest part of Portugal — the Serra da 
Estrella. We were office companions in the 
city of Oporto ; our names, John Lake — 
that is myself — Maurice Belford, and Charles 
Harden — both my countrymen— and a young 
Portuguese who had been educated in 
England, Augusto Cardoso. 

Had Belford, Harden, and myself been 
able to do so, we should probably have ex- 
cluded Cardoso from our quartette, and given 
the preference to a compatriot ; but during 
the first fortnight of our stay at the Quinta 
no incident occurred to cast any shadow on 
the general light-heartedness of our holiday- 
party. Cardoso was as companionable as 
one could desire ; he appeared to be as keen 
a sportsman as any of us, and as eager as 
any native-born Englishman to go out and 
" kill something." 

As for Charlie Harden, our latest " junior " 
from England, he did not pretend to any 
love for sport, and rarely shouldered a gun. 
He was of a scientific bent of mind, an 
ardent photographer, and he had brought 
with him from Oporto his camera, eager to 
secure views of the picturesque country 
about us, and snapshots of the equally pic- 
turesque people who inhabited it. We — that 
is, Cardoso, Belford, and myself — returned to 
the Quinta, after a long day's sport, with 
our spoils of the chase, and Charlie with 

the plates he had exposed, and which he 
developed in the dark-room he had extem- 
porised in a corner of the old building. 

It was an ideal life for four high-spirited, 
healthy young fellows ; but at the end of a 
fortnight " the little rift within the lute " 
began to appear. Cardoso, who had been 
our constant companion hitherto in our 
daily expeditions, commenced to find excuses 
for remaining at home. 

If these excuses had been occasional I 
should not have attached any significance to 
them, but as they had become of nearly daily 
occurrence I could not avoid casually com- 
menting on them one morning to Belfoid 
and Harden as the three of us set out, 
leaving Cardoso, as usual, " to write im- 
portant letters," as he had said. 

" Write letters ? Rot ! Why, where are 
your eyes. Jack ? " replied Maurice, with a 
sarcastic laugh. " Can't you see that the 
ass is making eyes at old Maria's niece, 
Rosita ? He deserves a horsewhipping ! " 

" Pooh ! — Rosita is going to marry Bento 
Dedo shortly," I objected ; " Maria Barbara 
told me so herself." 

"As if that matters— Rosita is as arrant 
a little flirt as ever breathed. I suppose she 
feels it to be quite a feather in her cap to 
have brought one of us 'senhors' to her 
pretty little feet."- 

" Look here," said I, stopping abruptly 
and turning on my companions with a serious 
face, " this is no joking matter. What I 




hear now is a revelation to me. Take it 
from me, both of you, as one who has had 
some experience of the country and the 
people, that the less you have to do with 
Rosita the better for you. Bento Dedo 
looks to me to be the last man in the world 
to tolerate any interference with his rights. 
And, now I come to think of it, the beggar 
has seemed lately to be more morose than 
usual. No wonder — I'll speak to Cardoso." 
" The amorous brute ! 
1;/ If he spoils pur holiday 

' I looked over the baluster." 

with his foolery he deserves 
a good hiding — and, by Jove! 
he'll .get it, too," said Maurice 

The Maria Barbara mentioned in our con- 
versation was the wife of the caseiro, or 
steward, of the Quinta da Bella- Yista, and 
lived with her husband and niece in a 
small cottage attached to the main building. 
It was her duty to cook for us and to attend to 
our rooms. This she did, with the assistance 
of Bento Dedo. 

Bento was a young fellow of about hve- 
and-twenty years of age, undersized, slim, 

but wiry, and with a low-browed, unpre- 
possessing face. Although we had been in 
constant communication with him since our 
arrival, we had never succeeded in breaking 
down the suspicious reserve in his peasant 
mind for the town-bred strangers. His real 
name wa^ Bento da Costa, but an accident 
that had deprived him of the thumb of his 
right hand had gained him, as is usual 
among his countrymen, a sobriquet descrip- 
tive of his misfortune : that of Bento 

As I had determined in the morning, we 
returned earlier than usual to the Quinta 
after our sport, and I was enabled to verify 
what Maurice had told me. 

A broad stone terrace ran along the side 
of the house where our bedrooms were 
situated. As I entered mine to put away 
my gun I caught side of Cardoso with his 
back turned to me. He was leaning well 
over the baluster, and I could tell from the 
movements of his shoulders that he was 
talking earnestly to someone in the garden 
below him. 

The French window was partially 
open. I stepped quietly through 
it and in a moment was by his side. 
He started up as soon as he 
saw me and turned scar- 
let. I looked over the 
baluster, and there, as I 
liad already guessed, was 
Bosita. She gave a little 
cry as she caught sight 
of me. She was swing- 
ing a slender gold chain 
in her fingers, and for a 
moment she stared up at 
me fixedly with a look of 
terror in her big black 
eyes, and her delicately 
tinted olive cheek paling 
and flushing as rapidly 
as her breathing. She 
looked like a pretty, 
frightened bird as she 
stood there. Then she 
suddenly recovered her- 
self, and Avithout a word of reply to my 
" Boa t(mi(> " her dainty figure flitted round 
the terrace corner and disappeared. 

"What a deuce of a start yon gave me. 
Lake ! " said Cardoso, smiling uneasily. 
" Indeed ? Better that I should do so 

than Bento " 

"Bento be hanged ! " 
" Agreed ; but' they don't hang in this 
country for what Bento might do, or attempt 



to do, if he caught you philandaring with 
Eosita : remember that, please." 

Cardoso snapped his hngers and his eyes 

" Bento ! I don't care that for Bento ! " 
said he contemptuously. "Look here, Mr. 
John Lake," he continued defiantly, " I'm 
going to marry Rosita in spite of him, and 
you, and anybody else ; now yoa know it." 

" Marry Rosita ? Good Heavens ! Has 
it come to that ? Why, you must have 
taken leave of your senses, Cardoso ? " 

" Thanks — that's a matter of opinion, and 
I didn't ask for yours ! Rosita is fit to be 
a queen. She was never meant for a stupid 
oaf like Bento ; and he shan't have her as 
long as I live ! " 

This was top much. I stamped my feet 
angrily on the stones, and felt my fingers 
itching to take him by the shoulders and 
shake him soundly. 

"Confound it ! " I exclaimed; "I might 
have guessed what would happen ! You 
Portuguese can't see a pretty face but you 
lose your balance directly. Now I tell you 
frankly, Cardoso, that Belford, Haiden, and 
myself have no intention of remaining here 
to see you make an ass of yourself — or 
worse ! Either you or we must get out 
of this ! " 

" Then I vote it's Cardoso who clears out ! 
Hang it all, I don't see why we three should 
have our fun spoilt for his sake ! If he 
doesn't know what ordinary decent behaviour 
is, we are not to blame, and shouldn't suffer ! " 

It was Maurice Belford who had spoken. 
He had overheard the controversy from his 
room, and he was now standing behind me, 
in his shirt-sleeves, and wiping his hands on 
his towel. 

Cardoso turned livid with fury. 
. " Do you dare to criticise my conduct ? " 
he shouted to Belford. "I'll give you a 
lesson ! " and he advanced threateningly. 

I promptly interposed between the pair. 

"Steady," said I wariiingly, as I pushed 
them both apart. " Don't attempt anything 
silly, either of you ; it won't settle anything 
satisfactorily to give or receive a black eye. 
There's the dinner-bell. Go and put on 
your coat, Maurice," and I gave Belford a 
shove in the direction of his room. 

Storm was in the air literally and figura- 
tively that day. As I closed my window, 
after leaving the terrace, I caught a glijupse 
of heavy masses of dark cloud, lit up 
momentarily by the flickering lightning, 
gathering over the brow of the distant 
Berra ; and as I entered the dining-room 

a casual glance at Maria Barbara, as she 
stood red -eyed and pale-faced near my chair, 
convinced me that there had been " ructions " 
in the caseiro's establishment. The atmo- 
sphere was too strained for me to venture 
upon an inquiry. I contented myself with a 
mental observation that undoubtedly the 
little sorceress Rosita was responsible for our 
attendant's woebegone appearance, among 
other things. 

My surmise proved to be quite correct. 
We had scarcely finished pur bean soup, 
which we had eaten in grim silence, when 
the dining-room door was opened and Bento 
entered. He marched rapidly up to the 
table, and with a sudden sweep of his 
maimed hand he dashed a glittering some- 
thing into the centre of it. It was a slender 
gold chain, with a locket, in the shape of 
a heart, attached to it. Evidently it was the 
same chain I had seen Rosita swinging in 
her fingers a short time previously. 

The man was pale as a corpse with sup- 
pressed passion. 

" Rosita sends this back " — he pointed to 
the chain — "to the senhor who gave it to 
her ; and the senhors will be good enough 
to understand " — here he looked a lowering 
challenge round the table — "that she doesn't 
accept such things from anyone but me." 

Bento turned on his heel to leave the room 
after dehvering himself of this pithy oration. 
This was too much for my equanimity. I 
sprang to my feet, very nearly upsetting the 
trembling Maria Barbara as I did so, and 
catching the fellow by the shoulders before 
he could reach the door I forced him back 
to the table. 

" If you dare to enter this room in that 
manner again I'll kick you out of it," said I 
to him. " Here is the gentleman who gave 
Rosita the chain." I pointed to Cardoso. 
" Now apologise to me and my friends, or I'll 
break every bone in your carcass, you 
impudent scoimdrel." ■ 

"Well, this is a pretty bear-garden," 
chimed in Maurice, as he caught the drift of 
the commotion. " Hang it all— Bento is in 
his rights. Why the dickens don't you leave 
the fellow and his Rosita in peace, Cardoso ? 
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.; you 
discredit us all." 

Cardoso turned on him like a tiger. 

" Shut up, you British blockhead ! " he 
foamed out, and without a word of warning 
he hurled ttie tumbler he was holding full at 
Belford 's head. 

The heavy glass shivered into a thousand 
fragments on the opposite wall, and the next 



moment Maurice and Cardoso were closely 
clinched and exchanging furious blows, while 
Maria Barbara was making the large room 
echo with Missricordias and shrill shrieks 
of terror. It was a bear-garden indeed. 

I released Bento, and then, with Harden's 
assistance, tore the two combatants forcibly 

" Do you call yourselves gentlemen ? " I 
gasped breathlessly, as I held on tightly to 
Maurice. "You are an edifying spectacle, 
the pair of you, and, to improve matters, 
you must let your servants hear you slang 
each other like a couple of fadistas " (street 
ruffians of the low quarters of the city). 
" Be off ! " I shouted to Bento, who had 
been an eager spectator of the scene, and had 
drunk in every word he could understand. 

Of course there was no more dinner for 
any of us that night. I got Maurice away, 
with some difficulty, into my bedroom, where 
we were presently joined by Charlie, who 
told me that Cardoso had left the house, 
destination unknown. 

During my five years' close companionship 
with Belford I framed in my mind that half 
unconscious and entirely superficial estimate 
of his character that satisfies the majority of 
men in their friendships. Had I been asked 
off-hand for details of Maurice's disposition 
I should have unhesitatingly described him 
as a good-tempered, easy-going fellow — the 
sort of man that wouldn't hurt a fly. I had 
never scratched the surface, for now he both 
puzzled and angered me with his dogged, 
concentrated determination to "take it out 
of that brute Cardoso, by hook or by crook," 
as he expressed himself. 

He appeared to be as revengeful as a 
Redskin. It was of no use talking to him 
or attempting to argue with him — he was 
just as receptive of what I had to say as a 
stone image might be, and, after the first 
expression of his opinion upon the matter in 
hand, about as talkative. He simply sat 
quietly on the end of my bed, nursing his 
cheek, where a livid mark still showed the 
imprint of Cardoso's fingers, and did not 
attempt to open his firmly compressed lips. 

This was a cheerful state of things. Charlie 
and I gave up our one-sided disputation in 
sheer despair of getting even a "Yes" or 
"No" from Belford. We lit our pipes 
and then stared in gloomy silence at each 
other through the smoke, heartily wishing — 
at least, I know I did — that I had never seen 
the Quinta da Bella-Yista. 

Presently a diversion was created in this 
Quakers' meeting by a tap at the door. 

It was Maria Barbara to announce that 
Padre Alvaro had called to see us. 

Padre Alvaro was the priest of the little 
village of Yal-Moura, situated about a mile 
distant from the Quinta. Charlie had taken 
the old man's portrait in all the glory of his 
vestments, and had promised, through me, 
to show and explain to his sitter the secrets 
of photography whenever the Padre should 
call at Bella-Yista. 

" He's your visitor, Charlie," said I ; "go 
down and entertain him." 

" Oh, I can't explain things to the old 
Johnnie ! " was the irreverent reply, as he 
rose to his feet and pocketed his pipe. " I 
counted upon you doing the showman's 
business. You know I don't understand a 
tenth part of what he says." 

It was true ; but I was very loth to leave 
Maurice until I saw him safely disposed of 
for the night ; and yet I did not wish to 
offend the Padre, who was a worthy old 
soul. I would have left Charlie and gone 
down alone, but then I knew as much about 
the mysteries of photography as the Padre 
himself, and this would be the last oppor- 
tunity of showing the camera to him. 
During the last half-hour's silent self- 
communion I had determined that the very 
next morning would find Maurice, Charlie, 
and myself on our way back to Oporto, free 
of Rosita, Bento, and Cardoso. 

" It's a confounded nuisance ! " said I, as 
I got on my feet. " Don't leave the room, 
Maurice. I don't intend to be long. Here, 
take this and have a smoke." I thrust my 
tobacco-pouch into his hand. 

He did not reply, but sat staring at the 
lighted candle on the table before him as if 
he had not heard me. 

I felt that this sort of thing was decidedly 
unsatisfactory, but I did not like to show it, 
so I followed Charlie down to the big, empty 
drawing-room overlooking the entrance, 
where the portly old priest was awaiting us. 

The storm that had threatened us at 
dinner-time, and that had been rumbling 
gradually onward since then in our direction, 
was now nearly overhead. The frequent 
peals of thunder shook the old house from 
roof to basement, and the lightning-flashes 
lit up the great gaunt room, making the 
feeble illumination of the two candles appear 
quite spectral by the contrast. 

Charlie had brought down his precious 
camera under his arm, and presently, with 
myself acting as dragoman, was explaining 
to Padre Alvaro the action of the apparatus. 

The simple old soul was delighted, and 



his wondering eyes beamed on us alternately 
like twin, beneficent stars ; he consumed 
snuff in huge pinches under the stress of 
his excitement, and overwhelmed us with 
profuse thanks and a red bandana as large 
as a bath-towel that he flourished in his 
hand, preparatory to emulating with his nose 
the blast of an archangers trumpet. One 
thing— one little thing only, was wanting to 
complete his state of beatitude : could he be 
permitted to see one of those marvellous 
little pieces of glass exposed and developed ? 
I had to explain to him here, under 
Charlie's direction, that up to that moment 
photography did not include in its pro- 
gramme exposure by candlelight. The simple 
old man's face fell, as also did a pinch of 
snuff half-way to its destination. The Padre 
was evidently greatly disappointed. 

I felt quite sorry that we couldn't gratify 
him, and then an idea suddenly occurred to 
me. I turned and fired it off at Charlie. 

"I've heard that it's possible to take 
lightning flashes — is that so ? If it is, try 
and bag one for the old chap ; but look 
sharp about it, because I want to get back 
to Maurice." 

Charlie was doubtful of results ; he had 
never studied that branch of the science, but 
he would try what he could do. The camera 
was quickly rigged up ; a window opened on 
the pateo, and, as luck would have it, a 
vivid flash directly in front of the lens was 
recorded almost immediately. It was so 
bright that it nearly blinded' the three of us 
for at least half a minute, and was followed 
by an awful, deafening crash of thunder— 
the peal of the evening. 

The Padre, Charlie, and myself now left 
for the dark-room with the slide. As we 
passed along the corridor I could not resist 
peeping into my bedroom to see Maurice, 
and to tell him that we had nearly disposed 
of our visitor. 

He was gone, and my tobacco-pouch was 
lying on the coverlet. I instantly ran back 
to the other two rooms, and, striking a match 
in each of them, gave a searching glance 
around. No, he was in neither of tliem ; 
could he have left the house ? 

" He has gone in search of Cardoso," was 
the thought that next passed through my 
brain. " If those two madmen should meet ! " 
I ran down the broad stone flight of steps 
and entered the pateo, with a strong pre- 
sentiment quickening my pulses that some 
evil thing had befallen. 

The storm was abating now, and a few 
stars were twinkling through the torn curtain 

of cloud, but it was still very dark. I 
walked cautiously onward over the uneven 
pavement towards the large open gateway 
that gave access to the high road to Yal- 

I reached it, but as I was passing through 
it I nearly stumbled suddenly on my knees 
over some yielding object lying straight 
across the entrance. Of course I was already 
wound up to expect all sorts of dreadful 
things, but there was something in the 
nature of the obstacle I had encountered 
that sent my blood in a wave back to my 
heart. Sick with apprehension, I stooped to 
examine it. For a time I could make 
nothing of the dark, sack-like looking outline, 
but a flash of lightning from the tail of the 
receding storm suddenly revealed, with 
startling distinctness, the body of a man, 

" Maurice and Cardoso were closely clinched." 

with its awful face and staring eyes turned 
to the sky. 

For a moment, I suppose, though it 
seemed ages, I stood glued there with horror. 
Then a hoarse cry burst from my hps and 
seemed to give me back the power to use my 
limbs. I rushed back to the house and 
up through it to the dark-room like one 

' Charhe, Charlie ! " I panted out of my 
dry throat as I beat with both hands on the 
locked door, " open, open at once ! " 

"Steady, old man— just half a tick ; I've 
got a splendid flash, I fancy ; I'm just 
rinsing the plate." 

"Open, open!" I shrieked furiously. 

" J) n the plate ! There's someone dead 

or murdered at the pateo gateway, Open ! " 

There was a quick clink of glass, the door 



was flung wide back, and I saw Charlie's 
horror-stricken face, in strong contrast to 
the mildly astonished features of Padre 
Alvaro, who had not understood a word of 
what I had just said, fronting me in the 
dull glare of the red lamp. 

"Good God ! Jack," gasped Charlie, "what 
is it you said ? Dead — murdered ! Is it — is 

it ?" He paused, with parted lips, 

unable or not daring to say more. 

" There is someone lying in the entrance- 
gate, to all appearance dead," I replied, as I 
leaned against the doorway and wiped the 
perspiration from my face. I turned to 
Padre Alvaro and translated what I had just 
told Charlie. 

" Santa Maria ! " ejaculated the Padre, as 
he threw up his hands J " But you must be 
mistaken, Senhor Lake," he continued, " An 
accident, perhaps. The man may not be 
dead. Come, mens senhor s^ let us go and 
see ! " 

In a few moments we were assembled 
round the prostrate figure. The storm had 
died away, and it was too dark to see 
distinctly. I drew a matchbox from my 
pocket and with a shaking hand struck a 

As the faint, flickering gleam fell upon the 
upturned, distorted features over which we 
were stooping, an exclamation of horror 
burst from each of us. The dead man 
was Cardoso ! ' 

" Ay de mim — it is as you feared, Senhor 
Lake," said the Padre, who was now on one 
knee by the body. " This is murder ; the 
knife that slew your friend is even now in 
his heart. Look ! " 

Charlie and I followed with our eyes, as if 
fascinated, the direction of the pointing 
finger and fixed upon the haft of the fatal 
knife planted in Cardoso's breast. Heavens ! 
there was no mistaking the identity of the 
weapon, even if we had not seen the roughly 
cut initials in the end of the bone handle. 
It was Maurice's hunting-knife. 

Charlie and I stared at each other across 
the body and read in each other's eyes the 
terrible words we could not speak. 

Padre Alvaro rose to his feet as the ex- 
piring match dropped from my nerveless 

" This is dreadful — an inexplicable event, 
•and a sad completion of your holidays, 7aens 
senhors, I will return at once to Yal-Moura 
and inform my friend, the Administrator, of 
what has happened." The Padre drew 
Cardoso's handkerchief over its owner's dead 
face. " The body must not be disturbed," 

he continued. " Call the caseiro to keep 
watch, and then, both of you, go back to the 
house ; I shall not be long. Ai, Ai, this is 
trisUssimo — tristissimo^' he concluded, shak- 
ing his white head. 

The old priest, after muttering a prayer 
and crossing himself, started on his way to 
Yal-Moura. Charlie and I roused up old 
Bernardo, the caseiro, and in a few minutes 
Cardoso's body was surrounded by the waving 
lanterns of the excited labourers of the 
Quinta. We then retired to the house to 
escape the flood of interrogation loosed upon 
us, and not daring to wait to hear the secret 
that must soon be patent to everybodyo 

" Oh, my God ! Jack, this is awful, 
terrible ! " groaned Charlie, with white lips, 
as he dropped into a chair. " Can it — can 
it really be true ? Did you see that — that 
knife ? " He paused a moment and then 
whispered, " Where is Maurice ? " 

" I don't know ; I wish I did," I replied. 
" He is not in the house." 

Charhe dropped his head on to his hands 
and attempted to say no more, and there we 
sat in the centre of the cavernous room with 
the sickly gleam of a solitary candle between 
us, waiting in a tense silence for the arrival 
of the Administrator and his officials, our 
nerves quivering with every sound made by 
the group of watchers. 

Our cruel state of suspense was broken at 
last by the shuffling of feet in the corridor 
outside and the whisper of orders. The 
door was thrown wide open and a group of 
bareheaded labourers, bearing Cardoso's 
corpse, covered by a sheet, slowly entered 
and deposited it upon the table. Close 
behind them followed the Administrator, his 
secretary, our friend Padre Alvaro, the 
doctor, and two policemen. 

Charlie and I knew the authorities slightly. 
They bowed silently to .us as they took their 
places at the head of the table. The 
secretary drew out his inkhorn and official 
papers to take notes of the inquiry that was 
now to be opened. 

The interrogatory commenced with those 
persons connected with the house. First 
came old Bernardo, the caseiro, Avho knew 
nothing ; then Maria Barbara, with drawn, 
white face and hysterical manner, who re- 
capitulated, among other things, the story of 
the struggle between Maurice and Cardoso 
that afternoon, and the words that had been 
e5:changed by the combatants after they 
had been separated. 

I could see that this particular portion of 
Maria Barbara's evidence had made a deep 

!'*■-"** tS-Jt-^U?l.r. ^^.1r *';'<: \ - ;*■■ --J ^ ««--...-...-.. sa»s*.^ ....^--. .-t^.^ 


' Every eye was turned upon him.' 



impression on the listeners, which must have 
been further strengthened by Bento Dedo's 
confirmation of it, given with the most 
cynical indifference. The circumstantial 
evidence against poor Maurice seemed to be 

The Administrator now addressed himself 
to Charles and me. 

" To which of the senhors does this 

weapon belong!" he asked, as he pointed to 

the bloody huntmg-knife lying upon the table. 

"To neither of us, your Excellency," I 

replied ; " it belongs to our companion '' 

" Ah — where is he, please ? " 
At the very moment he concluded his 
question the door opened and Maurice him- 
self appeared on the threshold. What a 
, wild, imkempt object he looked ! His hat 
was gone ; his clothing was wet through, and 
gave ample evidence that its owner must 
have been plunging about in the matto or 
undergrowth of the heath that stretched 
around us. 

Every eye was turned upon him as he 
stood in the doorway, startled and hesitating 
whether to advance or retreat. He looked 
around him inquiringly, and then as his 
glance caught the sinister outline of the 
burden on the table, his cheek blanched and 
he stammered forth — 

" What — what is the meaning of this ? 
What has happened ? Jack, Charlie ? " 
" Cardoso has been murdered," I rephed. 
Maurice stared at me with dilated eyes. 
"Murdered.? Good God! When? How?" 
he whispered at last. 

" During the storm — with this," I pointed 
to the knife. " Oh, Maurice, why did you 
leave the house ? " I added bitterly. 

Maurice stood silently for a moment or 
two and looked around him in bewilderment. 
Then, as he read in the hostile glances that 
crossed his own the true meaning of the 
situation, he stepped boldly forward with 
flushed face and an indignant sparkle in 
his eyes. 

"And do they think that I am the 
assassin ? " he demanded scornfully. " Is 
that it ? " 

The AdminisLrator had listened to this 
colloquy in a language he did not under- 
stand, at first with surprise, and now with 
restlessness. He broke in and addressed 
Maurice authoritatively, as he signed to the 
guardas to close the door. 

" Is this your knife, senhor ? " 

"Yes, it is ; but " 

" Bom ; we will not go into the matter 
here," interrupted the Administrator, with a 

wave of his hand. " You must now accom- 
pany us to Yal-Moura, senhor." 

At my suggestion Maurice was given per- 
mission to change his clothing, but the two 
guardas were ordered to accompany him to 
his room and to see that no one had any 
communication with him. 

T turned to Charlie as the trio filed from 
the room. 

"We must go down to Yal-Moura with 
Maurice," said I. " Come, let us go and get 
our hats." 

As we hurried along the corridor we 
heard footsteps behind us. I turned to find 
Padre Alvaro at our heels. 

" We are going to get our caps," said I, 
" and then we are going to Yal-Moura." 

" Ah, that is good," ejaculated the Padre, 
helping himself to a pinch of snuff. "I, 
also, will get my stick, which I left in the 
laboratory of this cavalheiro " — he bowed to 
Charlie — •" when we were occupied with the 
photograph he was so good as to take for 
me. May I ? " 

Charlie and I got our caps and then 
accompanied the Padre to the dark-room. 
The red lamp was still burning as we had 
hastily left it. 

The deep-coloured shade was withdrawn, 
and by the aid of the w^hite light the Padre 
speedily recovered his long, brass-shod walk- 

Charhe and I then turned to leave the 
room, but Padre Alvaro hesitated, and I saw 
his spectacles turn curiously on the white 
porcelain dish in which Charlie had deposited 
the negative. 

I fancied I could read what was passing in 
the Padre's mind. 

" You would like to see the photograph, 
Senhor Padre ? " I asked. 

The Padre's face brightened at the sug- 

" Then show it to him, Charlie," I added ; 
" but be quick ; we must go as soon as 
Maurice is ready. I will stand at the door 
and listen." 

Charlie picked up the plate from the 
water, after hastily rinsing it, and held it up 
to the bright light, while the Padre adjusted 
his glasses and peered eagerly over his 

I stood in the doorway listeniug for 
Maurice's departure from his room, which I 
strove to catch above the laboured, stumbling 
description Charlie was giving of the various 
objects delineated on the plate, and the 
Padre's interjections of " Marvellous ! " that 
filled every pause. 



^' This is the flash of lightning, Senhor 
Padre ; these the outbuildings of the Quinta ; 
this the wall of the pateo ; this the entrance- 
gate; this— this -ah! " and then Charlie 

suddenly ceased. 

At this moment I heard the sound of 
Maurice's bedroom door opening in the 
corridor below, and the tramp of the 
guar das. 

I turned round hastily. " Come on, 
Charlie," I said ; " Maurice is ready to go ! " 

" And this, senhor, is a black face--eh, 
surely ? and an arm, and a knife — black 
also," broke in Padre 
Alvaro eagerly. " Mpm 
Deus, senhor, I deceive ^ . "^ - . 
myself, do I not ? But 
it is very like him, you 
see ? " 

This unexpected 
taking -up of the de- 
scription of the plate by 
the Padre had startled 
me, a hundredfold more 
the bizarre words be 
had uttered. I stepped 

I was just in time. 
Charhe was standing 
holding the negative 
before the lamp, his 
face drawn and eyc') 
while Padre 
Alvaro, in his 
eager uncon- 
sciousness oi •■ . - 
the signifi- 
cance of 
what he had 
uttered, was 

approaching his forefinger to the delicate 
film, which, had he touched it, he would 
have undoubtedly destroyed. 

I seized the Padre's arm and held it 
forcibly back, much to the old man's aston- 
ishment. At the same moment with my 
other arm I reached over Charlie's shoulder 
and took it into my own hand. 

" What is it ? " I asked. 

"It's Cardoso— and — and his murderer." 

The discovery nearly knocked me silly for 
the moment. " For Heaven's sake take care 
of the plate. Jack ! " 

I bent over the negative in strong agita- 
tion. Padre Alvaro and Charlie were both 
right. Near the bottom of the plate could 
be seen Cardoso's face, in profile, and a 
portion of his body. At the moment of the 

flash the unfortunate man had been about 
to enter the pateo, and had perceived the 
doom that menaced him and from which he 
could not escape. From behind the massy 
stone pillar that supported the right-hand 
wing of the iron entrance-gate, was project- 
ing an arm and hand grasping a knife, 
apparently about to strike. 

Undoubtedly that hand and arm belonged 
to Cardoso's assassin. How could they be 
identified ? The negative was "sharp" and 
distinct enough, but small ; and, as a matter 
of fact, the strong excitement under which 

' Jt's Cardoso — and — and his 

I was labouring seemed to blur my 

I looked round for a magnifying glass, but 
there was none. Charlie suggested the lens 
from his camera, and, unscrewing it, handed 
it to me. One glance through it sufficed. 

I beckoned Padre Alvaro — I could not 
trust my voice — to approach and look 
through the lens. There was some little 
difficulty, that would have been comical 
under other circumstances, in adjusting the 
distance of the plate from the lens, in order 
to suit the old man's vision, but presently 
that was done. 




I watched liim keenly as he looked, and 
almost immediately his face began to work 
with excitement. He drew back, and, glanc- 
ing with a scared expression in his eyes at 
Charlie and myself, he whispered— 

" Oh, meu Dens, senhors, is this a picture 
of the assassination ? Is it— is it^^ sorcery 
—or a blessed miracle of the saints ? " 

"But the hand that holds the knife, 
Senhor Padre ? Look again ; again, please," 
I urged. 

Once more Padre Alvaro approached his 
face cautiously to the lens. 

" Surely," said he, and the words dropped 
one by one from his lips, like pebbles faUing 
into a well, " surely — dh—meus—senhors— 
it— is — a— hand— that— has— no— thumb." 
" Yes, the hand of Bento Dedo, Cardoso's 
murderer ! " I almost shouted, as my pent-up 
excitement broke loose. "We must see the 
Administrator at once. Maurice is free." 

For a moment or two the Padre and 
Charlie looked at me in speechless astonish- 
ment. The form^er found his voice first. 

" Then it is a blessed miracle of the 
saints," said he, bowing his head reverently 
and crossing himself. The next moment he 
was taking snuff with a forty-Padre power, 
embracing Charlie and myself in Portuguese 
fashion, and waving his bandana furiously. 

This was no suitable moment, however, 
for gratulation. Padre Alvaro returned at 
once to the drawing-room, from which the 
Administrator was just about to set forth 
with his prisoner for Yal-Moura. A short 
explanation sufficed to bring the magistrate, 
his secretary, and the doctor up to the 
dark-room. There they were shown the 
plate, and given all particulars of the history 
of its exposure. I cannot say how far our 
strange story would have succeeded, un- 
supported, in winning the credence of these 
gentlemen, but the testimony of worthy 
Padre Alvaro gave us a complete victory 
along the line. 

We returned in a body to the drawing- 
room, the Administrator himself bearing the 
precious negative gingerly betw^een his fingers. 
Charlie had impressed upon him that great 
care w^as necesf?ary for its preservation. 

As soon as we were settled in our places — 
Charlie and myself alongside poor Maurice— 

and the shuffling of feet had subsided, the 
Administrator called for Bento. 

The wretch came reluctantly forward, this 
time showing considerable trepidation. He 
evidently felt a presentiment that something 
must have gone awry with his scheme. The 
Administrator did not keep him long in doubt, 
for after asking Bento a few questions he 
roundly accused him of the murder of 

The excitement this announcement caused 
was intense among those not in the secret. 
Maria Barbara went into hysterics and was 
carried out, and Maurice looked up with a 
freshly awakened interest. 

Bento Hcked his dry lips and affirmed his 
innocence by all the saints, but the production 
of the negative, which was shown and ex- 
plained to him, convinced him that he had 
no loophole for escape. That apparently 
innocent-looking square of glass had trapped 
him into penal servitude for life. He saw 
the game was up, made a virtue of necessity, 
and confessed with the most cold-blooded 
frankness that jealousy had been the motive of 
his crime, and that his opportunity had been 
the quarrel between Maurice and Cardoso. 

Maurice, Charlie, and I did not remain at 
the Quinta until the formalities securing 
Bento's permanent residence in Angola were 
concluded. In less than two days we had 
shaken the dust of it from our feet, but we 
left behind us, as a gift to good old Padre 
Alvaro, the camera that had done us such 
yeoman's service. 

Cardoso's awful fate was not a subject we 
liked to discuss afterwards ; but I gathered 
from Maurice, before the affair was finally 
put aside, that he had left my room on that 
eventful evening bent upon wreaking his 
passion upon his enemy if he should en- 
counter him. The terrible manner in which he 
had been forestalled was a great shock to him. 
As for Eosita, I have since seen her several 
times in the streets of Oporto. She did not 
long wear the willow. She married a well- 
to-do farmer in the Serra da Estrella, and is 
now more buxom, but as captivating as ever. 
To judge from her appearance, Bento Dedo's 
life-long incarceration and Cardoso's death 
lie as lightly as feather-down upon her 
pretty shoulders. 


-^»A-^V^^^^^" ^^^^"^ 

MMM^ .i I ^^^;;^^y/. " ' ^ '-^:i.>^^? ' -^V ' ^'|j?j^;j^.i;'^-oy^/.^H- ' ' ' ^i^<^<<'-g^V.!^^^^^ ^ ^ ^ 

The lawyer asked the witness if the incident 
previously alluded to wasn't a miracle, and the 
witness said he didn't know what a miracle was. 

"Oh, come!" said the attorney. "Supposing 
you were looking out of a window in the twelfth 
storey of a building, an'd should fall outard should 
not be injured. What would you call that ? " 

" An accident," was the stolid reply. 

" Yes, yes ; but suppose you were doing the 
same thing the next day ; suppose you looked out 
of the twelfth storey window and fell out, and again 
should find yourself uninjured. What would 
you call that?" " A coincidence," said the witness. 

" Oh, come, now," the lawyer began again. " I 
want you to understand what a miracle is, and 
I'm sure you do. Just suppose that on the third 
day you were looking out of the twelfth storey 
window and fell out and struck your head on the 
pavement twelve storeys below and were not in the 
least injured. What would you call it ?" 

" Three times V " said the witness, rousing a 
httle from his a])athy. "Well, I'd call that a 
habit." And then the lawyer gave it up. 

Son: I know why little black boys is so ha])]>y. 
Parent: Why? 

Son : 'Cause their mothers can't tell when their 
hands isn't clean. 


" Wanted - novels, cheap ; or exchange new underclothing." 
— Advertisement in a Contemporary. 

Whichever way this problem's viewed, 

An odd exchansfe it surely looks ; 
Naturalism, highly crude, 

Must sound the keynote of these books. 

Or does the barterer belong- 
To some fad coterie, which grieves 

At modern dress, as wholly wrong, 
And advocates a garb of leaves? 

Fiction wears well, one must allow; 

(A print dress is in households seen I) 
But leafy costume is, 1 vow, 

A novel "wearin' o' the green." 

A. R, 


QContinited on the next page.^ 





Mrs. Platitude : What is the use of worrying, 
George? It doesn't do any good to borrow 

Her Husband : Borrow trouble ? Good 
Heavens! Fm not borrowing it! On the contiaiy, 
I have any amount to lend ! 

Sir Fitz Snugqins : It is too good of you to 
remember me after the dance at the Assembly 
Eooms ! 

Miss De Bret : Oh, but that is because you 
have one of those faces which we women try m 
vain to forget. 


Doctor (doing up a prescription in his dispensary) : Now, boy, hurry up with a piece of string. 
Boy: I'm trying tO; sir, but someone's bin and cut off the end! 

" All I care to say, your honour," said the 
red-nosed inebriate, "is that 1 am not one who 
drinks whisky with the idea that it's food. I 
may be a drunkard, your honour, but I'm no 
dietetic crank." 

"Sir, I have come to ask you for the hand of 
your daughter." 

" For Muriel's hand ? " 

" Yes, sir. It is a mere formality, I know ; but 
we thought it would be more pleasing to you to 
have me go through with it." 

" What's that? A mere formality ? And may 
I inquire who suggested that asking my consent 
to ray daughter's marriage was only a mere 

" It was Muriel's mother, sir." 

"Oh! In that case I have nothing more to 

" I HEAR there is some talk of employing women 
to collect the Census returns," said the Sweet 
Young lulling in her smoothest tones. 

" Good idea," said the Savage Bachelor, to her 
great astonishment. 

" Do you really think so ? " 

"Yes, I do. If there is anything on earth a 
woman is fit for, it is the business of finding out 
about other people's affairs." 

In one of our esteemed contemporaries we 
noticed an article entitled, " Onions Regarded as 
Food." We ourselves have always regarded them 
in this light, and we consider it our solemn duty 
to give an impressive warning to all who persist 
in regarding them as a beverage, assuring them 
that they are making tracks in quite the wrong 


S^- .;■■;■ -to 

?W^Sf i>^ V. 

K-i; ^ . *'fi 

^be Bxtta Cbarge^ 

Horticultural Old Gentleman : My good man, those plants I bought from you last week had no roots 

'' ''Itinerant Florist: All right, mister, yer can still 'ave the roots if yer likes ter pay fer 'em. I alius 
charges extry fer roots. 



By JF, Klickniann. 

Time was, he blazed in stripes of blue, 

Magenta, green, and red; 
Until the sight of his canoe 

Turned every tadpole's head I 
His linen was the tender tint 

Of Nankeen china jars; 
His cummerbund conveyed a hint 

Of Mandalay bazaars. 

Upon his hat the florid band 

Was Jaunty as his jacket; 
And when, in pensive pose, he'd stand 

And toy the tennis racquet, 

His colour-scheme was so immense, 
His foes remarked, in malice, 

It spared them need of spending pence 
On fireworks at the Palace. 

Time was I 

But now he's keen to wear 

The raw>sienna hues; 
While khaki dust sets in his hair. 

And khaki cakes his shoes ! 
But though this colour he adore, 

We entertain the hope 
That, while on Afric's sunny shore, 
He won't forget— like Mr. Boer— 

The primal use of soap I 


**A bett was always rung to warn the defenders to get under cover before the fall of the Boer shells. "Siege of Ladysmith 

Captain Spinks (invalided home from Ladysmith, and hearing the muffin man) : Great Scott! Maria, iump 
oerore the shell bursts. ' •' ^' 

Jn a Summer XanD, 

Fito:vi iiiK Th TuuK MY Hahoi.d Pkucival, 




By S. L. Bensusan. 

Photo[jrap]is by A. Cavil! a, Tdngier. 

IT is very surprising that in these days of 
universal travelling Morocco should 

still remain to the great mass of 
Englishmen an unknown land. Some few 
sunshine-seekers visit Tangier, a few sports- 
men se^k their favourite pastime in the great 
forest of Argan, lying beyond Mogador ; 
the men who travel inland to Marakesli, 
Mequinez, Fez, Wazzan, and the delectal)le 
district of the Sus may be numbered on the 
fingers of one hand. And yet the country 
of the Moors has a fascination that stirs the 
heart and lires the blood, that calls forth not 
a few of the adventurous Englishman's best 
qualities ; for it lies beyond the lands of 
conventional civilisation, and a man lives as 
he lists, not without some little danger, but 
with a compensating joy of life that the 
countries of the Grreat Powers can hardly 

It seems strange to pass from the grim 
rock on which England guards the Mediter- 
ranean Sea and to cross in three short hours to 
a country that seems to have re-risen from the 
pages of the " Arabian Nights." It is a land 
of arbitrary Cadis and evil-working Bashas ; 
of a plenty that satisfies nobody, often 

August, 1900. 

succeeded by famine that lays whole districts 
waste ; a world of fighting tribes that are 
equally careless of life and death ; a land 
where the rich grind the faces of the poor, 
and the governors grind the rich, and the 
Sultan or his Grand Vizier grinds the 
governors. As an Empire, Morocco is even 
more rotten than Turkey, and seemingly 
nearer its end, for the corruption and cruelty 
pass belief, intrigue is rife in every quarter, 
and the reins of government, so long held by a 
strong mau wjth a broken constitution, are 
now in the hands of an untried man. " In 
a very few years all England will have heard 
of Morocco— perhaps they will hear of it too 
late." So said an experienced diplomat in 
the course of a recent conversation ; and tlie 
more I pondered his w^ords, the more clearly 
I realised the gravity of the crisis that wn'll 
come with a change of the balance of power 
in that corner of Africa. 

From time to time one hears reports of 
the vast wealth of Morocco, and people who 
never set a foot in the country hasten to say 
it has no existence save in the imagination 
of story-tellers. Yet the few who have 
travelled through the interior tell of a 
243 s 2 



mineral wealth that bids fair to rival the 
Transv aal,undeveloped and unexploited— first, 
because the Moors believe it is against the 
will of Allah to break into the bowels of 
the earth ; secondly, because the Sultans and 
their advisers have been quick to realise 
that with the advent of the mining industry 
the downfall of the native Government can 
no longer be delayed. The fate of Major 
Spilsbury's endeavour on behalf of the Globe 
Yenture Syndicate, formed to trade with the 
Sus, will not be forgotten in this connection, 
and other attempts on a smaller scale have 
been made, with less reclame^ but no better 
result. The restrictions that hamper this 
branch of industry find counterpart in other 
directions. Morocco is reckoned, throughout 
vast tracts of land, to be one of the most 
fertile countries of the world. It has corn- 
growing districts even richer than our valley 
of the T3ee at home ; for here the land must 
be served by the sweat of man's brow, while 
in Morocco it needs but to be tickled with a 
hoe in order to laugh with a harvest. There, 
again, a most pernicious system of restriction 
comes in. The Shereefian Government will 
not permit grain to be sent from one part of 

the connlry to another, 
and conscMjiiently for one 
}\'\\\' a disd'ict may ])e so 
rifli ill grain tliat the 
harvest rots for lack of 
adequate labour to gather 
it, and the next year 
there may be starvation 
in the £ame quarter. 
There is little or no storage in any of the 
inland towns ; for, so soon as a man shows 
even slight signs of wealth, the Governor comes 
upon him for a heavy subsidy, and if he does 
not pay he is thrown into prison and left to 
starve. Industry is paralysed. In order to 
realise how such a state of things becomes 
possible, it should be noted that every 
governor of a Moroccan town pays the 
Sultan heavily for his post. It is clearly 
understood that he will get his capital back, 
together with a very large inteicst, from the 
unhappy people he is called upon to govern ! 
Morocco is roughly parcelled out among 
certain tribes, all owing fealty to the Sultan. 
In some cases the fealty is merely nominal, 
in others the fealty might almost be £aid to 
exist on the other side, for the Sultan has to 
subsidise certain tribes to keep them quiet. 
When the late Sultan, Muley Hassan, took 
his woeful journey to Tafilet, a journey which 
brought about his death, he went with an 
army estimated at forty thousand men. 
These men ate whole districts clear of food ; 
but on his return journey the Sultan had to 
bribe some of the fiercer tribes very heavily 
to keep his own hordes from annihilation. 



Mr. Walter Harris, who has the honour of 
being the one Englishman who has made his 
waj to Tafilet, sajs that the expedition was 
only saved from annihilation on the return 
journey by subsidies and the expedient of 
keeping the Sultan's death private. 

I have, perhaps, said enough to give some 
small general idea of life in a country whose 
fascination is but little affected in the eyes of 
Europeans by the native maladministration. 
It is interesting to turn to the action of the 
Great Powers. Though the Sultan's Court 
is nearly always at Marakesh or Fez, the 
Legations are all at Tangier. France has 
military missions with the Court and at 
Rabat, on the coast, the Court doctor is 
French, but the military organisation is to 
some extent under the supervision of Kaid 
Harry MacleaD, C.M.G., an adventurous and 
gallant Englishman, who has spent a quarter 
of a century in the Shereefian service, and 
lives at Marakesh with his wife and family, 
in high favour with the Court. In Tangier, 
however, the Ambassadors are all installed. 
Sir Arthur Nicholson representing England ; 
M. Revoil, aided by M. de Lamartiniere, 
France ; and Sr. Don Ojeda, who will 

possibly be recalled before these lines are 
published, Spain. The other Powers have 
their Embassies there, but interest centres 
round the Embassies of England, France, 
and Spain. In any question affecting the 
vital interests of Morocco, England must 
make her voice heard, for with a hostile 
power holding Tangier, our Mediterranean 
control would be seriously threatened. 
Ceuta, the other Moorish port opposition on 
the Mediterranean, belongs to Spain, and is 
commanded by Gibraltar, which faces it 
across the Strait. No small sensation was 
caused by a recent report that it was to be 
leased to Russia, a report seemingly without 
foundation. So far as can be seen, England 
is not taking steps to extend her influence in 
Morocco. France, on the other hand, has 
been showing an extraordinary activity for 
some years past. Algeria lies on Morocco's 
eastern boundary, and by means of her 
railway running from Oran to Tlemcen, 
and turned south— under past diplomatic 
pi'essure— to Figuig, commands the city 
of Fez, the northern capital of Morocco. 
The intervening country has been mapped 
out by French " scientific missions," 




like the one that seized the Oases of 
Tuat in January. Moreover, there are 
thousands upon thousands of Moors — 1 fear 
to quote the numbers given to me, lest they 
sound exaggerated — who are to all intents 
and purposes Frenchmen. A system of 
protection prevails throughout Morocco — 
England is the only Great Power that does 
not grant it freely — by which the protected 
Moor becomes the subject of the protecting 
Power. In this way he avoids the extortion 
and cruelty of his own rulers and is doubtless 
reckoned upon against the day when the 
Moorish Empire will come to earth with a 
crash that will shake half Europe. France 
recruits soldiers for her Algerian army and 


gives protection to the recruits and their 
families in return for one year's military 
service. She supplies the Shereeiian army 
with artillerymen, and, as I have said, has 
two important military missions in the 
country, one inland, the other on tlie coast. 
These owe their creation largely to the skill 
and ingenuity of M. de Tjamartiniere, a clever 
diplomat who, though he is content wifch the 
nominal position of first secretary to the 
French Ijegation, exercises a very great 
influence in the country to which he may, 
sooner or later, be made Ambassador. He 
is a very versatile man, who has written a 
good book on the route to Fez, and well- 
informed people trace to his influence the 
French protection of the sacred city of 

Wazzan. This town, which is of great 
interest, is nearly fifty miles inland from 
Laraiche, the first port of size on the western 
coast ; it is the residence of the Shereefs of 
Wazzan, who claim direct descent from the 
Prophet Mohammed, and wield no little 
political power. The Shereefs have all 
accepted French protection and will doubtless 
throw^ their influence into the French 
scale when the proper time arrives. The 
young Shereef, son of the late Shereef Sidi 
Haj Absolom, was educated at a French 
military school, and the widow of the late 
Shereef is living in Tangier under the 
protection of France and in receipt of a 
French pension. In Wazzan, I am told, 
the slave trade flourishes un- 
checked. It is not French 
policy to alter any of the 
existing evils ; for only w^hen 
the distress and discontent 
reach their height will she be 
able to act — nominally, no 
doubt, in the interests of 

Spain's position in Morocco 
is peculiar. Well-informed 
opinion represents her as 
anxious to extend her in- 
fluence in the country and 
to seek at her threshold, so 
to speak, a solace for the 
disappointments and disasters 
of her recent war. Ceuta is a 
position capable of exercising 
great influence in the Medi- 
terranean, but it is not like 
Gibraltar, and could not be 
made in any degree equal to 
it without an expenditure 
that Spanish resources are 
. quite unable to endure. 
Further down the coast, where the Medi- 
terranean is wider, Spain owns a very 
large expanse of territory, including Melilla, 
like Ceuta, a convict station. In the war 
with Morocco, now nearly two score years 
old, Spain seized Tetuan and only gave it up 
in consideration of an indemnity that was 
probably never paid; and it is quite reasonable 
that, w^hen Spain can again look abroad, she 
should seek to extejid her power in Morocco. 
What France will say i-emains to be seen. 
France is the tried friend, with money, who 
holds the bulk of Spanish securities and has 
a big voice in controlling Madrid's foreign 
policy ; but at the same time Paris must 
never be obnoxious to Madrid, for some three 
hundred thousand men would be required to 



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guard the Pjrenean frontier in case of a war 
between France and any other Great Power, 
unless Spain were friendly. 

The other Great Powers are not active in 
Morocco, though they might actively resent 
any coup d'etat. Russia's Embassy only came 
into existence eighteen months ago, at the 
request of France. There are no Russians 
in Morocco, or very few^ ; outside the Embassy 
there is said to be only one Russian subject 
in Tangier. 

Quite apart from the political problems 
aw^^iting solution, the fascination of Morocco 
is apparent to every man who can ride, shoot, 
and take care of himself. In the coast towns 
there is little or no danger ; even in the 
interior it is probably less dangerous than 
people have said. On the coast a knowledge 
of Spanish will take a man anywhere ; for the 
interior a knowledge of Arabic, most difficult 
of languages to speak accurately or write 
fluently, is imperative. The coast town natives 
are quite harmless, but the majority of the 
tribesmen from the interior, the warlike 
Riffians and Tuaregs, Berbers both, the 
Shenouahs from Abyssinia, the coal-black 
Soudanese from Kitchener's country, and the 
many other tribes of men who come through 
the interior with caravans bearing all kinds 
of merchandise, are a quarrelsome crowd. 



There is more than a strong suspicion that 
human merchandise finds a big place in 
caravans that start from the south and 
never approach the coast. If the Powers 
were not divided against themselves, these 
abuses would not last six months ; as 
things are, they will endure as long as the 
Moroccan Empire endures in its present 
form. The scenes in the great markets held 
in all large towns are most interesting and 
picturesque. One spends hours among them 
and never knows fatigue. Moorish cafes and 
Moorish prisons, Moorish shops and Moorish 
street scenes, marriage and burial 
customs, actions at law, civil or 
criminal — of one and all a 
volume might be written without 
exhausting the possibilities of the 
subject. It is probable that 
Japan has been more influenced 
by Western ideas than Morocco ; 
for even in Tangier, the town 
to which most English and 
American visitors come, the 
natives do not abate one jot of 
their ceremonial hfe ; the scenes 
in the market-place alone would 
make the average Englishman 
believe he was a thousand miles 
away from the civilisation of the 
West. Caravans of camels are 
still the ships of the desert, and 
come to the Sok with skins of 




wild animals from the land of the B'ni 
M'Gild, and dates from Tafilet ; the Arab 
story-teller yet finds a crowd to sit round 
him in a circle, heedless of the scorching 
sun, the vicious flies, and the cries of the 
sellers far and near, and listening entranced 
to stories of genii and princesses, of magic 
and enchantments, of love and war. The 
mvezziri still calls the faithful from their 
bargain and sale, to stretch a piece of carpet 
upon the sand, turn towards Mecca, and pray 
devoutly. The Basha still administers what 
he is pleased to call justice by the gate of the 
Kasbah, and beyond the hills wild tribes meet 
and decide their differences with old flint- 
lock guns calculated to do most harm to 
those who stand behind them. A fair 
horse may be purchased for five pounds, 
though it may never be taken out of the 
country ; fruit and vegetables are always 
cheap ; a fowl may be bought for ninepence, 


and native servants are readily procured ; so 
that for a very few pounds per month a man 
may live in comfort amid surroundings whose 
charm becomes apparent so soon as the fii'st 
sense of novelty has worn off. Trade is 
restricted and land is hard to buy. There are 
a few other disadvantages, but to all the coast 
ports trading steamers pay visits at short 
intervals, when the weather permits, while 
the service between Tangier and Gibraltar 
is daily, and Spain can be reached from 
Tangier and from Ceuta. 

How soon will the great change come ? 
That is the question asked on all sides, for 
troubles and intrigues have been dangerously 
on the increase in the last two years, and the 
watchers on the spot are conscious that the 
end is near. Upon the late Grand Vizier, 
"Abu Hamed," a man of extraordinary 
versatility and capacity for intrigue, who took 
the reins of government in his hands wiien 
the late Sultan 
Muley Hassan died, 
the future of 
Morocco was 
thought to depend. 
"Abu Hamed" rose 
from the lowest 
position to be 
Chamberlain, and 
there were many 
intrigues against 
his influence ; but 
he brought off a 
sudden coup, ob- 
tained the dismissal 
and downfall of the 
Grand Yizier and 
the Minister of 
War, took, the first 
post himself, and 
gave the other to 
his brother. He 
has been to Morocco 
what the Dowager 



Empress has been to China, but, if report 
speaks truly, he was careful enough to accept 
French protection, thus keeping his life and 
liberty secure in the event of losing power as 
suddenly as he acquired it. The Sultan 
Muley Abdul Aziz is still little more than a 
boy; the Yizier kept him amused, and the 
Sultan was long content to show his interest 
in State affairs by inspecting any gifts of 
artillery that were made by foreign Powers. 
The Grand Yizier was a party to all the evils 
that make Morocco the scourge of its native 
population, but he saved the country from 
revolution and the sudden upheaval that 
might play directly into the hands of France. 
On this account it is, perhaps, unfortunate 
that " Abu Hamed " is dead, but at the time 
of writing it is impossible to predicate the 
political results of his death. 

It is quite certain that in any questions 
relating to the ultimate disposition of the 
Moroccan Empire there will be many 
conflicting interests. With England the 
Mediterranean question is paramount, quite 
apart from the vast agricultural and mineral 
resources that must be opened in the near 
future. With Frenchmen there is the dream 
of pushing the Algerian occupation to the 
west until it stops on the borders of the 
Atlantic, and in this way establishing an 
African Empne not unworthy of comparison 
with our own. To this end France has 
been working assiduously for years, while 
other interested Powers have been quiescent. 
Spain's interest has been discussed, and of 
course no Mediterranean Power can be 
indifferent to the fate that awaits a country 
with such an extensive seaboard. While Sir 

John Drummond Hay was our Minister to 
the Moroccan Court, English prestige was at 
its height. I have been told that he would 
call upon Sid Mohammed Torres, the then 
Minister for Foreign Affairs, and ask as a 
matter of course to see the latest despatches 
from the Shereefian Court. Sir Charles 
Euan Smith made a bold attempt to develop 
English prestige, but was not backed up by 
the Home Government, and retired into 
private life, a disappointed man. Sir Kirby 
Green's tenure of office was not productive 
of any great developments, and of Sir Arthur 
Nicholson no more can be said at present 
than that he is very popular and is believed 
to have great gifts. It is likely that he 
will soon have occasion to show them. 

Morocco has been the subject of many 
interesting books. The most modern are 
written by Messrs. R. B. Cunninghame 
Graham, Walter B. Harris, and Budget 
Meakin, and the student who wishes to learn 
all he can about a country that must soon 
loom large in European politics may be 
recommended to give these writeis an earnest 
study. French writers include Pierre Loti 
and M. de Lamartiniere, to whose book 
I have referred. A single magazine article 
cannot hope to deal adequately with any 
aspect of a country whose history in the 
present as in the past is so complicated. 
I have been content to write in the hope of 
awakening an interest against the time when 
everybody will be speaking about the country, 
and few will be acquainted with either the 
events that have led to the forthcoming 
troubles or the people and interests most 
concerned in them. 



Illustrated by Harold Copping. 
No. III.— M00S8Y. 

F the eyes 
of an old 
boy do not 
light up at 
the men- 
tion of 
" Moossj," 
then it is 
no use his 
the years 
which have 
passed and 
the great 
which have 
filled his 
life ; you 
know at 
once that 

he is an impostor and has never had the 
privilege of passing through Muirtown 
Seminary. Upon the genuine boy— fifty 
years old now, but green at heart — the word 
is a very talisman, for at the sound of it the 
worries of life and the years that have gone 
are forgotten, and the eyes light up and the 
face relaxes, and the middle-aged man lies 
back in his chair for the full enjoyment of 
the past. It was a rough life in the Seminary, 
with plain food and strenuous games ; with 
well-worn and well-torn clothes ; where little 
trouble was taken to give interest to your 
work, and little praise awarded when you 
did it well ; where you were bullied by the 
stronger fellows without redress, and thrashed 
for very little reason ; where there were also 
many coarsenesses wliich were sickening at 
the time to any lad with a sense of decency, 
and which he is glad, if he can, to forget ; 
but, at least, there was one oasis in the 
wilderness where there was nothing but 
enjoyment for the boys, and that was the 
" Department of Modern Languages," over 
which Moossy was supposed to preside. 

* Copyriifht, 1900, by John Watson, in the United 
States of America. 

Things have changed since Moossy's day, 
and now there is a graduate of the University 
of Paris and a fearful martinet to teach 
young Muirtown French, and a Heidelberg 
man with several degrees and four sword- 
cuts on his face to explain to Muirtown the 
mysteries of the German sentence. Indignant 
boys, who have heard appetising tales of the 
days which are gone, are compelled to 
" swat " at Continental tongues as if they 
were serious languages like Latin and Greek, 
and are actually kept in if they have not 
done a French verb. They are required to 
write an account of their holidays in German, 
and are directed to enlarge their vocabulary 
by speaking in foreign tongues among them- 
selves. Things have come to such a pass — 
but I do not believe one word of this — that 
the modern Sparrow, before he pulls off the 
modern Dowbiggin's bonnet and flings it 
into the lade, which still runs as it used to 
do, will be careful to say " Erlaulen Sie mir^'' 
and that the modern Dowbiggin, before 
rescuing his bonnet, will turn and. inquire 
with mild surprise, " Was wollen Sie, mem 
Freiind?^^ and precocious lads will delight 
their parents at the breakfast-table by asking 
for their daily bread in the language and 
accent of Paris, because for the moment they 
have forgotten English. It is my own firm 
conviction, and nothing can shake it, that 
Muirtown lads are just as incapable of 
explaining their necessary wants in any 
speech except their own as tliey were in the 
days of our fathers, and that if a Seminary 
boy were landed in Calais to-day, he would 
get his food at the buffet by making signs 
with his fingers, as his father had done before 
him and as becomes a young barbarian. 
He would also take care, as his fathers did, 
that he would not be cheated in his change 
nor be put upon by any ''Frenchy." Foreign 
graduates may do their best with Seminary 
lads -and their kind elscAvhere— but they 
will not find it easy to shape their unruly 
tongues ; for the Briton is fully persuaded in 
the background of his mind that he belongs 
to an imperial race and is born to be a ruler, 




" But Moossy was little better than an abject." 

that every man will sooner or later have to 
speak his language, and that it is undignified 
to condescend to French. The Briton is 
pleased to know that foreign nations have 
some means of communication between 
themselves— as, indeed, the lower animals 
have, if you go into the matter ; but since 
the Almighty has put an Enghsh (or Scots) 
tongue in his mouth, it would be flying in 
the face of Providence not to use it. It is, 
however, an excellent thing to have the 
graduates, and the trim class-room, and the 
tables of the foreign verbs upon the wall, and 
the conversation-classes — the Sparrow at a 
conversation-class !~ and all the rest of it; 
but, oh ! the days of long ago — and Moossy ! 
Like our only other foreigner, the 
Count, Moossy was a nameless man, for 
although it must have been printed on 
the board in the vestibule of the school, 
which had a list of masters and of classes, 
no one can hint at Moossy's baptismal 
name, nor even suggest his surname. The 
name of the Count had been sunk in the 
nobility which we conferred upon him, and 
which was the tribute of our respectful admira- 
tion, but " Moossy " was a term of good- 
humoured contempt. We were only Scots 
lads of a provincial town, and knew nothing 
of the outside world; but yet, with the 
instincts of a race of Chieftains and Clansmen, 
we distinguished in our minds between our 

two foreigners and placed them far aparb. 
No doubt the Count was womanish in his 
dress, and had fantastic manners,- but we 
knew he was a gallant gentleman, who was 
afraid of nobody and was always ready to 
serve his friends ; he was debonnaire, and 
counted himself the equal of anyone in 
Muirtown, but Moossy was little better than 
an abject. He was a little man, to begin 
with, and had made himself smaller by 
stooping till his head had sunk upon his 
chest and his shoulders had risen to his 
ears ; his hair fell over the collar of his coat 
behind, and his ill-dressed beard hid any shirt 
he wore ; his hands and face showed only 
the slightest acquaintance with soap and 
water, and although the Sparrow was not 
always careful in his own personal ablutions, 
and more than once had been sent down to 
the lade by Bulldog to wash himself, yet the 
Sparrow had a healthy contempt for a dirty 
master. Moossy's clothes, it was believed, 
had not been renewed since he came to the 
Seminary, and the cloak which he wore on a 
winter day was a scandal to the town. His 
feet were large and flat, and his knees touched 
as the one passed the other, and the Seminary 
was honestly ashamed at the sight of him 
shambling across the North Meadow. He 
looked so mean, so ill put together, so 
shabby, so dirty, that the very "Pennies" 
hooted at him and flung him in our faces. 
The Eector was also careless of his dress, and 
mooned along the road, but then everybody 
knew that he was a mighty scholar, and that 
if you woke him from his meditation he 
would answer you in Greek ; but even the 
Sparrow understood that Moossy was not a 
scholar. The story drifted about through 
Muirtown, and filtered down to the boys, that 
he was a bankrupt tradesman who had fled 
from some little (lerinan town and landed in 
Muirtown, and that because he could speak a 
little English and a little French, as German 
tradesmen can, he had been appointed by an 
undiscriminating Town Council to teach 
foreign tongues at the Seminary. It is 
certain he had very little education and no 
confidence in himself, and so he was ever 
cringing to the bailies, which did him no 
injury, for these great men regarded them- 
selves as beings bordering on the super- 
natural ; and he was ever deferring and giving 
in to the boys, which was the maddest thing 
tliat any master could do, and only confirmed 
every boy in his judgment that Moossy was 
one of the most misei^able of God's creatures. 
His classes met in the afternoon, and were 
regarded as a pleasant relaxation after the 



labours of the day, and to escape from the 
government of Bulldog to the genial freedom 
of Moossy's room proved, as we felt in a vague 
way, that Providence had a tender heart 
towards the wants and enjoyments of boys. 
It goes without saying that no work was 
done, for there were only half a dozen who 
had any desire to work, and they were not 
allowed, in justice to themselves and to their 
fellows, to waste the mercies which had been 
provided. Upon Bulldog's suggestion, Moossy 
once provided himself with a cane, but it 
failed in his hands the first time he tried to 
use it, which was not at all wo-nderful, as 

John, sittiu'j at the head of his form and 
working diligently upon a French transla- 
tion, which he could do better than Moossy 
himself, the Sparrow would make a signal to 
the form, and, leading off from the foot him- 
self, the form would give one quick, 
unanimous, and masterful push, and Thomas 
John next instant was sitting on the floor ; 
while if, by any possibility, they could land 
all his books on him as he lay, and baptise 
him out of his own ink-bottle, the form was 
happy and called in their friends of other 
forms to rejoice with them. Moossy, at the 
noise of Thomas John's falling, would hurry 

" Tlie form would give one quick, unanimous, and masterful push, and 

Jock Howieson, who did not approve of 
canes, and regarded them as an invention of 
the Evil One, had doctored Moossy's cane 
with a horse-hair, so that it spht into two at 
a stroke, and one piece flying back struck 
Moossy on the face. 

" That 'ill learn him to be meddling with 
canes. It's plenty that Bulldog has a cane, 
without yon meeserable wretch " ; and that 
was the last effort which Moossy made to 
exercise discipline. 

Every afternoon he made a pitiable appeal 
that the boys would behave and learn their 
verbs. For about ten minutes there was 
quietness, and then, at the sight of Thomas 

over and inquire the cause, that a boy so 
exempLiiy and diligent should be sitting on 
the floor with the remains of his work 
around him ; and as Thomas John knew 
that it would be worth his life to tell the 
reason, Moossy and he pretended to regard 
it as one of the unavoidable accidents of life, 
and after Thomas John had been restored to 
his place, and the ink wiped off his clothes, 
Moossy exhorted the form to quietness and 
diligence. He knew Avhat had happened, 
and would have been fit for a lunatic asylum 
if he had not ; and we knew that he knew, 
and we all despised him for his cowardice. 
Had there been enough spirit in Moossy to 



go for Sparrow (just as Biilldofj: would have 
done), and thrash him there and then as he 
sat in his seat, brazen and unashamed, we 
would all have respected Moossy, and no one 
more than Sparrow, to whom all fresh 
exploits would have had a new relish. But 
Moossy was a broken-spirited man, in w^hom 
there was no fight, who held a post he was 
not fit for, and held it to get a poor living 
for himself and one who was dearer to him 
than his own life. So helpless was he, and so 
timid, that there were times when the boys 
grew weary of their teasing and disorder, 
and condescended to repeat a verb in order 
to pass the time. 

When the spring was in their blood — ^for, 
like all young animals, they felt its stirring — 
then there w^ere wonderful scenes in Moossy's 
class-room. He dared not stand in those 
days between two forms, with his face to the 
one and his back to the other, because of the 
elastic catapults and the sharp little paper 
bullets, which, in spite of his long hair, would 
always find out his ears ; and if he turned 
round to face the battery, the other form 
promptly unmasked theirs, and between the 
two he w^as driven to the end of the room ; 
and then, in his very presence, without a 
pretence of concealment, the two forms would 
settle their differences, while, in guttural and 
uncultured German, Moossy prayed for peace. 
Times there were, I am sorry to say, when at 
the sting of the bullet Moossy said bad 
words, and although they were in German, 
the boys knew that it was swearing, and 
Sparrow's voice would be loudest in horror. 

" Mercy on us, lads ! this is awful language 
to hear in the Seminary ! If the Town 
Council gets word of this, there 'ill be a fine 
stramish* For maselV' Sparrow would con- 
clude piously, " I'm perfectly ashamed." 
And as that accomplished yoimg gentleman 
had acquired in the stables a wealth of 
profanity which was the amazement of the 
school, his protest had all the more weight. 
Poor Moossy would apologise for what he 
had said, and beseech the school neither to 
say it themselves nor to tell what they had 
heard ; and for days afterwards the Sparrow 
would be warning Thomas John that if he, 
Sparrow — censor of morals — caught him 
cursing and swearing like Moossy, he would 
duck him in the lade, and afterwards bring 
him before the Lord Provost and magistrates. 

There was no end to the devices of 
the Seminary for enjoying themselves and 
tormenting Moossy ; and had it not been 
for Nestie, who had some reserves of taste, 
the fun would have been much more curious. 

As it was, Moossy never knew when he 
might not light upon a frog, till it seemed 
as if the class-room for modern languages 
were the chosen home for the reptiles of the 
district. One morning, wiien he opened his 
desk a lively young Scots terrier puppy 
sprang up to welcome him, and nearly 
frightened Moossy out of such wits as he 
possessed. He had learned to open the door 
of his class-room cautiously, not knowing 
whether a German Dictionary might not be 
ingeniously poised to fall upon his head. 
His ink-bottle would be curiously attached to 
his French Grammar, so that wlien he lifted 
the book the bottle followed it and sent the 
spray of ink over his person, adding a new 
distinction of dirtiness to his coat. Boys 
going up to write on the blackboard, where 
they neverwrote anything but nonsense, would 
work symbols with light and rapid touch upon 
the back of Moossy's coat as they returned ; 
and if one after the other, adding to the 
w^ork of art, could draw what was supposed 
to be a human face upon Moossy, the class 
was satisfied it had not lost the hour. There 
were times when Moossy felt the hand even 
on the looseness of that foolish coat, and 
turned suddenly ; but there was no shaking 
the brazen impudence of Muirtown, and 
Moossy, looking into the stohd and unintel- 
ligent expression of Howieson's face, thought 
that he had been mistaken. If one boy was 
set up to do a verb, the form, reading from 
their books and pronouncing on a principle 
of their own, would do the verb with him 
and continue in a loud and sonorous song, 
till Moossy had to stop them one by one, and 
then they were full of indignation at being 
hindered in their studies of , |;he German 

Moossy was afraid to complain to the 
Rector, lest his own incompetence should be 
exposed and his bread be taken from him ; 
and of this the boys, with the unerring 
cunning of savages, were perfectly aware, 
and the torture might have gone on for 
years had it not been for the intervention of 
Bulldog and a certain incident. As the 
French class-room was above the mathe- 
matical, any special disturbance could be 
heard in the quietness below ; and whatever 
else they did, the students of foreign 
languages were careful not to invite the 
attention of Bulldog. Indeed, the one check 
upon the freedom of Moossy's room was 
the danger of Bulldog's arrival, who was 
engaged that hour with the little boys and 
had ample leisure of mind to take note of 
any special noise above, and for want of 

' Nothing is more difficult than to catch a 



occupation was itching to get at old friends 
like Howieson. There are times, however, 
when even a savage forgets himself, and one 
spring day the saturnalia in Moossy's room 
reached an historical height. It had been 
discovered tbab any dishke which Moossy 
may have had to a puppy in his desk, and a 
frog in his top-cloak pocket, was nothing to 
the horror with which he regarded mice. 
As soon as it was known that Moossy would 
as soon have had a tiger in the French class- 
room as a mouse upon the loose, it was felt 
that the study of foreign languages should 
take a new departure. One morning the 
boys came in with such punctuality, and 
settled to their work with such demure 
diligence, that even Moossy was suspicious 
and watched them anxiously. For ten 
minutes there w^as nothing heard but the 
drone of the class mangling German 
sentences, and then Howieson cried aloud in 
consternation, " A mouse ! " 

" Vat ees that you say ? Ah ! mices 1 
vere ? " and Moossy was much shaken. 

"Yonder," said Sparrow, pointing to 
where a mouse was just disappearing under 
the desk ; " and there's another at the fire- 
place. Dod, the place is fair swarming, and, 
Moossy, there's one trying to run up your 
leg. Take care, man, for ony sake." 

" A mi(;es," cried Moossy, " vill up my legs 
go ; I vill the desk ascend," and with the 
aid of a chair Moossy scrambled on to his 
desk, where he entrenched himself against 
attack, believing that at that height he would 
be safe from " mices." 

The Sparrow suggested that as this plague 
of mice had burst upon the French class- 
room the scholars should meet the calamity 
like men, and asked Moossy's permission to 
go out upon the chase. For once Moossy 
and his pupils had one mind, and the school 
gave itself to its heart's content, and without 
a thought of consequences, to a mouse hunt. 
Nothing is more difficult than to catch a 
mouse, and the difficulty is doubled when no 
one wishes to catch it ; and so the school fell 
over benches, and over one another, and 
jumped over the desks and scrambled under 
them, ever |)retending to have caught a 
mouse, and really succeeding once in smother- 
ing an unfortunate animal beneath the weight 
of" half a dozen boys. Thomas John was 
early smeared with ink from top to bottom 
by an accident in which Howieson took a 
leading part, and the German Dictionary 
intended for a mouse happened to take Cosh 
on the way, which led to an encounter 
between that indignant youth and Bauldie, in 

which mice were forgotten. The blackboard 
was brought down with a crash, and a form 
was securely planted on its ruins. High above 
the babel Moossy could be heard crying 
encouragement, and demanding whether the 
"mices" had been caught, but nothing 
would induce him to come down from his 
fastness. When things were at their highest, 
and gay spirits like Sparrow were beginning 
to conclude that even the big snow fight was 
nothing to a mouse hunt, and Howieson had 
been so lifted that he had mounted a desk, 
not to catch a mouse, but to give a cheer, 
and was standing there without collar or tie, 
dishevelled, triumphant, and raised above all 
the trials of life, the door opened and 
Bulldog entered. And it was a beautiful 
tribute to the personality of that excellent 
man, that the wdiole room crystallised in an 
instant, and everyone remained motionless, 
frozen, as it were, in the act. 

Bulldog looked round with that calm 
composure w^hich sat so well upon him, 
taking in Moossy perched upon his desk, 
Howieson on his*^form, Sparrow sitting with 
easy dignity on the top of Thomas John, and 
half a dozen worthies still tied together in a 
scrimmage, as if this were a sight to which 
he was accustomed every day in Muirtown 

"Foreign languages," he began, after a 
pause of ten seconds, " is evidently a divertin' 
subject of study, and I wonder that any 
pupil . is left in the department of mathe- 
matics. I was not aware, Jock, that ye 
needed to stand on a form before you could 
do your German, and I suppose that is the 
French class in the corner. I'm sorry to 
intrude, but I'm pleased to see a class in 
earnest about its work. 

" Mices ! " remarked Bulldog in icy tones, 
as poor Moossy came down from his desk and 
began to explain. " My impression is that 
you are right, as far as I can judge~-and I 
have some acquaintance with the circum- 
stances. There are a considerable number 
of mices in this room, a good many more 
mices than were brought in somebody's 
pocket this morning. The mices I see were in 
my class-room this morning, and they were 
very quiet and peaceable mices, and they'll 
be the same in this class-room after this, or 
I'll know the reason why. If you'll excuse 
me," and Bulldog embraced the whole scene 
in a comprehensive farewell, " I'll leave the 
foreign class-room and go down and see what 
my laddies are doing with their writing " ; 
and wlien Bulldog closed the door Howieson 
realised that he owed his escape to Bulldog's 



" They came bravely along the lane, Sparrow pulling 

respect for another man's class-room, but 
that tlie joyful day in modern languages had 
come to an end. There would be no more 
" mices." 

Next Saturday afternoon Sparrow and 
Nestle were out for a ramble in the country, 
and turning into a lane where the hedgerows 
were breaking into green, and the primroses 
nestling at the roots of the bushes, they came 
upon a sight which made them pause so that 
they could only stand and look. Down the 
lane a man was dragging an invalid-chair, a 
poor and broken thing which had seen its 
best days thirty years ago. In the chair a 
woman was sitting, or rather lying, very 
plainly but comfortably dressed, and care- 
fully wrapped up, whose face showed 
that she had suffered much, but whose 
cheeks were responding to the breath of 
spring. As they stood, the man stopped 
and went to the bank and plucked a handful 
of primroses and gave them to the woman ; 
and as he bent over her, holding up the 
primroses before her eyes, and as they talked 
together, even the boys saw the grateful 
pleasure in her eyes. He adjusted the well- 
worn cloak and changed her position in the 
chair, and then went back to drag it, a 

heavy weight down the soft and yielding 
track ; and the boys stood and stared and 
looked at one another, for the man who was 
caring so gently for this invalid, and toiling 
so manfully with the lumbering chair, was 

" Cut away. Sparrow," said Nestie ; " he 
wouldn't like us to see him. I say, he ain't 
a bad sort —Moossy— after all. Bet you a 
bottle of ginger-beer that's Moossy's wife, 
and that's why he's so poor." 

They were leaving tlie lane when they 
heard an exclamation, and going back they 
found that the miserable machine had slipped 
into the ditch and there stuck fast beyond 
poor Moossy's power of recovery. With 
many an " Ach ! " and other words, too, he 
was bewailing the situation and hanging over 
his invalid, while she seemed to be cheering 
him and trying if she could so lie in the 
chair as to lessen the weight upon the lower 
side, while every minute the wheel sank 
deeper in the soft earth. 

" What are you staring at, you idle, worth- 
less vagabond ? " said Nestie to the Sparrow. 
" Come along and give a hand to Moossy," 
who was so pleased to get some help in the 
lonely place that he forgot the revealing of 




liis little secret. With Sparrow in the shafts, 
who had the strength of a man in his 
compact little body, and Moossy pulling on 
the other side, the coach was soon upon the 
road again, amid a torrent of gratitude from 
Moossy and his wife, partly in English, but 
mostly in German, but all quite plain to the 
boys, for gratitude is always understood in 
any language. They came bravely along the 
lane. Sparrow pulling, Moossy hanging over 
his wife to make sure she had not been hurt, 
and Nestie plucking flowers, to make up a 
nosegay in memory of the lane, while Moossy 
declared them to be ''Zivei herzliche KnabenP 

When they came to the main road. Sparrow 
would not give up his work, but brought the 
carriage manfully to the little cottage, hidden 
in a garden, where Moossy lodged. When 
she had been carried in — she was so light 
that Moossy could lift her himself — she 
compelled the boys to come in, too, and 
Moossy made fragrant coffee, and this they 
had with strange German cakes, which were 
not half bad, and to which they botli did 
ample justice. Going home, N'estie looked 
at Sparrow, and Sparrow looked at Nestie, 
and though no words passed it w^as under- 
stood that the days of the troubles of Moossy 
in the Seminary of Muirtown were ended. 

During the remaining year of Moossy 's 
labours at the Seminary it would not be true 
to say that he became a good or useful 
master, for he had neither the knowledge 
nor the tact, or that the boys W'cre always 
respectful and did their w^ork, for they were 
very far removed from being angels ; but 
Moossy did pluck up some spirit, and 
Sparrow saw that he suffered no grievous 
wrong. He also took care that Moossy was 
not left to be his own horse from day to day, 
but tliat the stronger varlets of the Seminary 
should take some exercise in the shafts of 
Moossy 's coach. Howieson w^as a young 
gentleman far removed from sentiment, and 
he gave it carefully to be understood that he 
only did the thing for a joke ; but there is no 
question that more than once Jock brought 

Moossy's carriage, with Moossy's wi"fe in it, 
successfully along that lane and other lanes, 
and it is a fact that, on a certain Saturday, 
Sparrow came out with one of his father's 
traps, and Mistress Moossy, as she w^as called, 
was driven far and wide about the country 
around Muirtown. 

" You are what the papers call a ph -philan- 
thropist. Sparrow," said Nestie, *' and I 
expect to hear that you are opening an 
orphan asylum." And Sparrow promptly 
replied that, if he did, the first person to be 
admitted would be Nestie, and that he w^ould 
teach him manners. 

It was a fortunate thing for Moossy that 
someone died in Germany and left him a 
little money, so that he could give up the 
hopeless drudgery of the Seminary and go 
home to live in a little house upon the banks 
of the Ehine. His wife, who had been 
improving under Dr. Mauley's care, began 
to brisk up at once, and was quite cerkxin of 
recovery when one afternoon they left 
MuirtoAvn Station. Some dozen boys were 
there to see them off, and it was Jock and 
Sparrow who helped Moossy to place her 
comfortably in the carriage. The gang had 
pooled their pocket-money — selling one or 
two treasures to swell the sum — that Moossy 
and his wife might go away laden with such 
dainties as schoolboys love, and Nestie had a 
bunch of flowers to place in her hands. They 
still called him Moossy, as they had done 
before, and he looked, to tell the truth, 
almost as shabby and his hair was as long as 
ever ; but he was in great spirits and much 
touched by the kindness of his tormentors. 
As the English mail pulled out of Muirtown 
Station with quickening speed, the boys ran 
along the platform beside the carriage, 
shaking hands with Moossy through the open 
windows and passing in their gifts. 

" Take care o' mices ! " shouted Jock, 
with agreeable humour, but the last sight 
Moossy had of Muirtown was Sparrow 
standing on a luggage-barrow and waving 


3lo loVc 1 Kti 

kTiow net LskiX, 

i\ll conditions I aim af. &^tcrefore,ncia m loVe no move, 
ut,a.LcRl€SS I Wc^^ji'^^^^^^^ Keretofcre; 

|To |ain Her cabora I uoolSi ^t i^^fe 





By Robert Machray. 

AS a nation we have not hitherto been 
strong in military painters, which 
is certainly a remarkable fact when 
we consider bow full onr history is of 
lieroic deeds and splendid feats of arms. 
Even the tremendous stru«:2:le which saw the 
rise and fall of Napoleon did not give us any 
great battle-pictures, and it is not a little 
singular that almost the only painting of 
epoch-making Waterloo in our public gal- 
leries—it hangs in South Kensington — is by 
the Fi-ench artist, Phillippoteaux. France, 
on the otlier hand, with her adoration of La 
(ilolre and her devotion to the Army, lias 
found inspiring themes for several painters 
of the first rank in the stories of her wars. 
The walls of Versailles are covered Avith 
pictures of the achievements of her generals, 
and every art collection abounds in military 
subjects.' One has only to recall the names 
of Meissonier, Horace Yernet, Detaille, Yvon, 
and I)e Neuville, to say nothing of others, 
and a host of glorious canvases, dedicated 

to the soldiers of 
France, spring 
instantly into 
the mind's eye. 

It is just pos- 
sible that the 
indifference of 
British painters 
to battle-scenes 
and military 
subjects generally m\\ disappear in con- 
sequence of the importunate public deniand 
that now manifests itself on all sides for 
])ictures dealing with the war in South 
Africa. Not that they have not been given 
their cue in such matters before. AVas there 
ever a more popular painting than "Tlie Roll 
Call,'' by Lady Butler ? I shall probably be 
told that art has nothing to do with popu- 
larity, but, as the Americans say, " Is that 
so ? " Rather, it seems to me, does the 
universal desire, amounting to a positive 
craving, for pictorial commentaries on the 




Aow^^ of our Army in South Africa point 
to the existence of a genuine instinct, not 
wholly brutal, which our painters would do 
well to satisfy. A nation of shopkeepers, no 
doubt, we are ; but the man in tlie street, 
who perhaps serves behind a counter, none 
the less knows and feels with pride that he 
belongs to a conquering race. And so lie 
calls and clamours for the brush and pencil 
of the war artist to make real and vivid 
presentments for him of the various aspects 
of the conflicts in which the figliting men of 
that race of his liave been or are engaged. 

The pictorial press has never had any 
doubt about it. Since William Simpson 

same celerity and alacrity which characterise 
the movements of " Our Own War Corres- 
pondent." The war artist is thoroughly 
well aware of the fact that his sketches will 
be looked for (|uite as eagerly as, perhaps 
even more so than, those of his brother of 
the pen, for they bring home to thousands 
the incidents of warfare far more directly 
than any mere words can do, however 
eloquent or forceful the writing may be. 
Take us on the whole— we are not a 
particularly imaginative people — and we like 
pictures, because they present us with some- 
thing tangible. They show us the actual ; 
they realise things for us. 


By W. B. Wollen, R.I. 

sketched in the Crimea for the Illustratpd 
London Ne/vs (see our former article on "War 
Correspondents " in the Windsor for April), 
the work of war artists has been one of its 
most conspicuous and, at the same time, 
most acceptable features. No matter where 
flows the dark tide of war, there artist- 
specials are immediately despatched by those 
who direct our illustrated papers. Mr. 
Seppings Wright, himself a distinguished 
war artist, tells us liow the imperative com- 
mand is issued from the " office " — "(lOto 
the front "—and within a few hours he is 
on board train or steamer, as the case may 
be, ypvieding to the scene of action with the 

It is hardly to be wondered at, then, if the 
interest in general which attaches to pictures, 
combined with the war in South Africa and 
the Imperial spirit of the time in which we 
live, should lead to a great development 
amongst us witli respect to the choice of 
military subjects by our painters — a develop- 
ment which is certain of wide appreciation. 

It goes without saying that a military 
painter must be perfectly familiar with the 
details of military life. It is perhaps not 
necessary that he should have particij)ated in 
a cainpaign — Lady Butler is a notable proof 
to the contrary ; but to have bec^n present in 
actions, to have shared in the emotions that 



attend on victory or defeat, to have taken 
part in the forced march and in the life of 
the camp, to have bivouacked in the rain or 
under clear, starry skies-—in a word, to have 
seen the reality of war— must surely hold its 
own inspirations. Meissonier was attached 
to the staff of Napoleon III. in the Italian 
war, and was frequently under lire. His 
first great battle-painting, "The Battle of 
Solferino," which is in the Luxembourg, is 
reminiscent of a day of fate of which he 
himself was a witness. Detaille was a soldier 
in the Franco-German war, and we are told 
that the double sympathies of the patriot 

his canvas battle-scenes not actually observed 
with his own eyes. 

The position of an artist making sketches 
on the field of battle must be a trying and 
difficult one. He has to do his work often 
on horseback or on camel-back, amidst a 
scene of confusion. He must not allow 
himself to be daunted or greatly disturbed. 
Above all, he must have a quick eye and a 
steady hand. He must be ready to seize 
points of interest as they arise and to transfer 
them to his paper with all possible speed, 
therefore coolness and great dexterity must 
be his. Sometimes he may have time to 



By H. C. Seppinjs Wright. 


and the artist were so strong that even on 
the field of battle he would drop his gun to 
take his pencil, and then, the sketch finished, 
take up his gun again. Several of our 
English battle painters have had experiences 
of w^ar, and their art must surely gain from 
what they have seen. 

A distinction, however, must be drawn 
between battle painters and war artists. 
Every battle painter is in a sense a war 
artist, but not all war artists are battle 
])ainters. For the purpose of this article I 
shall define the war artist as a "special," 
who sends us pictures of incidents at the 
front, the battle painter as one who puts on 

finish his sketches, but we are air familiar 
with his work published in the rough, helped 
out by written notes, such as those sent by 
Mr„ Melton Prior and others. More fre- 
quently the rough sketches are worked up 
in black-and-white by artists at home whose 
services are specially retained by the illus- 
trated papers on account of their capacity 
for rendering adequately the real feeling, 
the veritable atmosphere, of war. Several 
of the pictures accompanying this article 
belong to this class. They are the produc- 
tions of battle painters rather than of war 
artists. The battle painter, however, may or 
may not have any such notes to work from. 



CURSIN(; THE infidel: an incident in TIIK INDIAN FRONTIER RISING OF J8i>7. P,Y S. REGG. 

Prominent amongst our battle painters 
stands Mr. R. Caton Woodville, R.I., one of 
a band of distinguished men who made their 
reputation first in the pictorial press. Rather 
more than a score of years ago, Caton Wood- 
ville, a youth of twenty, submitted a drawing 
in black-and-white to the Illustrated London 
A^eivs, and his connection with that journal 

has remained unbroken since. His father 
was an artist of distinction, whose paintings 
were exhibited at the Royal Academy ; his 
mother was a Russian. After his father's 
death, the boy and his mother went to 
Petersburg, then to Germany, where, at 
Biisseldorf, young Woodville studied art 
under E. von GebhOirdt, a painter who had 


%^.'h '" 


: • .\i 




a predilection for religious subjects. Coining 
to London, he continued his studies. When 
he was just twenty, Sir William Ingram sent 
him to represent the Illustrated London Netvs 
in the Servian war of 1878, and he also 
acted as war artist for the same journal in 
the Egyptian campaign of 18 82. He has 
thus had abundant opportunities at first 
hand of seeing wdiat war really is, and so it 
is no wonder that his paintings are full of 
actuality, of life and movement. 

On Mr. Woodville's return from the wars 
he began to paint large canvases devoted to 
military subjects, exhibiting in the Eoyal 

his paintings and wash drawings is his 
wonderful success, his amazing " skill, in 
expressing action. Take, for example, '' The 
Charge of the 21st Lancers at Omdurman," 
which appears with this article. The whole 
scene, with its pell-mell of fighting, struggling 
Dervishes and Lancers, is instinct with life. 
The incident itself was one of the most 
stirring in the campaign of Kitchener against 
the Khalifa, and can hardly yet have faded 
from general recollection. The picture, which 
appeared in the Illustrated London News, 
was worked up from a sketch made by an 
officer of the Seaforths. Another Egyptian 

Drawn by Sidney Paget from a sketch by Ernei^t Prater. 

Academy first in 1879, and fame came to 
him almost at once. His picture of " Saving 
the Guns at Mai wand,'' which was bought 
by the Corporation of Liverpool for the 
Walker Art Gallery, placed him at a bound 
in the front rank of military painters. Since 
then he has increased his reputation by 
such pictures as " Kassassin," " Kandahar," 
"1815" (his Waterloo picture), ''The 
Storming of Badajoz, 1812," and " TMa- 
clava." In addition to his paintings, 
Mr. Woodville has always done a large 
amount of black-and-white work, for the 
nivstrated London News in particular. To 
me, the most striking characteristic of both 

picture by Mr. Woodville is given on page 
271, " The Destruction of a Transport 
near Suakim," in which may again be 
observed the same vigour of movement. 
Two subjects derived from the war in South 
Africa are presented as further examples 
of Mr. Woodville's work. One depicts " A 
Column of British South African Police on 
the March " : the other, " All that was Left of 
Them," a picture of mournful but heroic 
suggestion, which appeared in the Spear as 
a supplement, has for its tlieme the calling 
of the roll of the remnant of the Highland 
Brigade after the disastrous morning of 

By John Charlton. 



i.,\rir.*i^%€ o ;.'r^. '**^.**^ 


'At the battle of Willow Granoe an officer of the Imperial Light Horse went into the open and rescued a 

badly wounded private and carried him into safely under a heavy fire." 

An incident of the present Transvaal War depicted by Stanley L. Wmd. 


Aiiotlier Sontli African picture, a line of 
Higblanders uiHler lire, is tliat of Mr. John 
PI. I^acoii. The original of this first 
appeared in Black and White a short time 
ago. Mr. Bacon has had no experience of 
war itself, but liis work, as shown in this 
and other sketches, is very effective. He 
has studied the best Frencli models, and 
readers of the Windsor will readily recall 
the striking illustrations by him which 
appeared in this magazine accompanying 
Mr. Guy Boothby's serial, " Pharos the 

Mr. Wollen, an artist who has done a 
large amount of work for the illustrated 

page 204 shows some of the 2nd Punjab 
Infantiy breasting the Kotal as they march 
on to the relief of Fort Galistan — an episode 
in the Indian Frontier rising of 1897. To 
the same time belongs Mr. S. Begg's re- 
markably effective " Cursing the Infidel," 
the central figure, that of a native ?nuUah or 
prophet, being drawn with splendid verve. 
One of the grandest achievements of any 
war is portrayed by Mr. Sidney Paget {l^ie 
Sphere) in his fine picture, " How Lord 
Roberts's Son Went Out to Save the Guns," 
an ever-memorable incident of the effort to 
relieve Ijadysmith. Mr. John Charlton, who 
is well known as the painter of several 

Ti!i: i)Ksri;r( riuN oi a ruAN.-i'oitr m:m; -^^ \kim: an incident of the soudan war of 1885. 

By R. Calon W'oodvilk, R.L 

press, particularly in military subjects, is 
represented here by " A Review of the Scots 
Greys " and " A Sudden Attack." In the 
latter a detachment of the Hampshire 
Infantry are seen repelling an attack of 
Dacoits in Burma. Mr. Wollen has lately 
been in South Africa for the Sphere. Mr. 
Seppings Wright, wlio has successfully com- 
bined in himself the functions of war 
correspondent and war artist, has seen 
several campaigns, but not the last. One 
campaign is enough, he thinks, to furnish 
forth a war artist with all the material he 
needs for his battle-pictures— so he once 
confided to me. The wash di'awing on 

military pictures, such as "Ulundi" and 
" Tel-el-Kebir," and who painted the official 
picture of the Thanksgiving Service in front 
of St. Paul's on the occasion of the Diamond 
Jubilee, called " God Save the Queen," con- 
tributes to our article an animated present- 
ment of artillerymen in the act of crossing a 
ford ; it is chosen from the GrajMc. Mr. 
Stanley li. Wood, who is in his element in 
battle painting, is" represented here by his 
spirited study of the rescue of a wounded 
soldier by a comrade, originally published in 
Black and White, Personally, however, I 
think Mr. Wood is at his best when he 
di'aws horses ; no one can beat him at tliat. 

'f. ' ■ 



Illustrated by A, Fores tier. 


This story is related by Captain Alfred Hilliard, a young Englishman of considerable means and good social 
position, who is spending some time on the Continent with his friend Fordham. At Pan, Hilliard became 
acquainted with a Colonel Lepeletier and promptly fell in love with his daughter. When the Lepeletiers returned 
to their home in Calais, Hilliard followed them; but though he had every reason to believe that Agnes Lepeletier 
cared for him, his offer was positively declined by her father, no reason being assigned. At their house he met 
a man whom he had known, when a boj", as Robert JeflPery, but who was known as Sadi Martel to the French 
household. JefPery, alias Martel, had deteriorated with years, and was now a man given to drink and 
thoroughly unscrupulous. He invited Hilliard to go with him and inspect some excavations, purporting to be 
harbour works and coal borings, which were being carried on by the shore, and which he was superintending. 
Never for a moment suspecting any treachery, Hilliard accompanied him one afternoon to the scene of operations* 
which proved to be a tunnel in course of construction beneath the Strait of Dover. Martel then accused Hilliard 
of being a spy and threatened imprisonment. On his calling Hilliard a liar, the Englishman struck him down 
senseless in the tunnel, and escaped himself with the greatest difficulty, only to find that an alarm had been raised 
and a search set on foot for him. 



— ^riHE car- 
^ riagecame 
out of the 
shadows at a 
snail's pace, as 
the distance 
made it, and 
took shape with 
deliberation. I 
sat upon a low 
bank at the 
roadside and 
asked, if it were 
the carriage 
which Agnes 
drove, whence 
had it come, 
and whither was 
it going ? So 
weary was I 
with running 
that minutes passed before a memory of the 
day would serve me and recall to me, letter 
by letter, the words of the truth. It was the 
Paris road, I said at last. It could be no 
other. Agnes had delayed at Haut-Buisson 
and was returning now to Calais. Obstinate 
indifference to aught but fatigue kept me 

* Copyright, 1900, by Max Pemberton, in the United 
States of America. 

there upon the bank to laugh at prudence. 
I had run away, as I thought, from that 
very path to end by stumbh'ng upon it 
blindly. There was no more dangerous 
place for me in all France that night. Why, 
twenty messengers must already have 
patrolled that very ground in search of the 
fugitive. And he could calmly sit upon a 
bank and wait for the twenty-first messenger 
who certainly would come. But fatigue was 
the master, overpowering, numbing fatigue, 
which forbade even the common use of 
reason and chained the limbs to the ground 
as with fetters of lead. 

A full golden moon of summer shone 
down upon the road and set it as a vein of 
silver, white and clear, even among the 
shimmering wheat and the darker pasture 
land. I could make out the phaeton, for such 
it appeared to be, outstanding in the clear light 
and coming toward me witli a beggarly slow- 
ness which seemed a mock upon my sore-tried 
patience. Never once did my eyes leave it, 
from the moment it came out of the darkness 
by Haut-Buisson and began to cross the 
open country toward Calais. It was the 
phaeton which Agnes drove. I was sure of 
it now. And I knew that she must pass the 
place whereby I rested — knew that I must 
see her, must speak to her, must tell her. 

A horseman rode out of the shadows and 

drew near the crawling phaeton. Down 

there upon the white road, he looked like 

some toy soldier playing upon a child's 

273 u 



field. I counted the seconds while he reined 
in to hail the carriage, and then, again, the 
minutes as he galloped on for Calais and the 
gate. Soon the thud of hoofs upon the road 
became as the distant beating of a drum ; 
and I, who had watched him with indiffer- 
ence, turned in a lit of panic and scrambled 
down the bank to the edge of the dyke that 
skirted it. There had been no moment since 
the beginning of it when my heart beat as it 
beat to that music of the hoofs. He could 
not pass me bj, I said. The lights of 
England shone more distantly at the thought. 
Lying there, I might not see the Foreland, 
my beacon beyond the horizon of stars. 
The distant road, the phaeton, the lamps of 
Calais — they were shut from my eyes as by a 
curtain ; and lying close to the earth, in 
the fooHsh thought that it might shield me, 
I listened to the sounds as minute by minute 
they magnified. The man was halting then 
— was drawing rein. I lay closer still to the 
earth and waited for the end. 

These instants of peril, how real they are 
to us when fear is tuned to their note, and all 
the reality has gripped our nerves, and we 
may not know from one beat of a pendulum 
to the next what our to-morrow will be ! 
Twenty times as the horseman drew near 
me I believed that he had seen me, was riding 
to the place, was crying to me to surrender. 
Closer still and closer to the earth I lay, to 
drive the figure of my imagination from me, 
but it would not be moved. At last I shut 
my eyes, my ears, would neither think nor 
listen. If this were the hour, so let it be. 
I had done my best. 

The shadow draws near, it touches us, it 
passes. We rise up to laugh at it and to 
forget why we were so afraid. Tliis view, 
at least, is wifchin my own experience. When 
next I looked up from my hiding-place by 
the dykes, the stars were shining gloriously 
in the unclouded heaven above. Once more 
the Foreland beckoned me ; from the road 
itself there came but the muted sound of 
labouring wheels. How grotesque all that I 
had done and said seemed in that moment ! 
Of course the trooper did not see me. He 
would have something else to do than to 
search every bank he passed or to draw rein 
at every bush. I had acted hke some woman 
frightened suddenly. And now I could laugh 
at myself—if, indeed, there were not a graver 
occupation. For the phaeton liad breasted 
the hillside by this time. I ran towards it 
and held up my hand. 

"Mademoiselle Agnes, are you going to 
run me down ? " 

She reined the ponies back upon their 
haunches. I could see her pretty eyes open 
wide at my predicament. And little wonder. 
Never again upon that Paris road will she 
meet a man smothered in dust and grime, 
his boots white with the chalk of the cliffs, 
the mud thick upon his cape, his manner 
that of one who scarcely knew what he did 
or what he wished to do. Such a picture of 
myself I may not deny. 

" Captain Alfred ! " she cried at last, as 
though escaping the spell of astonishment. 
" But — but where is your carriage ? " 

I tried to answer her collectedly, but failed 
grotesquely in the effort. 

"You must have passed it at Escalles — my 
man Bell is waiting for me there. I have 
been to the works. Your friend Martel 
persuaded me to go there and then tried 
to arrest me. I knocked him down and 
escaped by the beach. That's my story, 

Excitement drove the words as a torrent. 
I spoke in English and had not the remotest 
idea of what I said. She heard me with 
pitiful eyes and a little low cry. 

" Oh, my God ! it is you, then, whom they 

" No doubt of it. The fellow who just 
rode by could have thrown a biscuit at me. 
I suppose there will be others. What am I 
to do, Agnes ? " 

The man asking the woman for help ! 
Judge me as you will, I seemed then to have 
lost all power to think or act for myself. 
Instinct of sympathy drew me tenderly 
toward this gentle girl, as though we two 
had been cast out by Destiny to that lonely 
road, there to battle for our happiness, our 
future, our lives. "What am I to do, 
Agnes ? " The pity of that question wrung 
my very heart. 

She listened in silence. I know now that 
the wise little head was fall of a hundred 
plans. But the night had robbed her of her 
girlhood. She w^ould never think and act 
again as she had thought and acted before 
she heard my story. 

" You must go away from Calais," she said 
slowly ; " you must go away to-night." 

I laughed a little ironically even at her. 
Fear can make our selfishness brutal some- 

" That's easy enough. Tell Jacques to 
call a balloon and I will float to Charing 
Cross. Don't you see that I have no chance ? 
They will watch every gate, every train, every 
steamer. How can I go away ? " 

She would not hear me. 

" 1 lay closer still to the earth and waited for the end.' 



" We must think, think," she said quietly. 
"Let Jacques go back to Escalles to tell your 
man. They must not question him." 

" Of course they must not. Let him tell 
Bell to wait for me at the Meurice." 

" Your own hotel ? " 

Her quicker wisdom aroused my own. 

" No," I said, for the idea came swiftly, 
" let him go on the road to Boulogne." 

She spoke a few words, with a composure 
that astonished me, to Jacques, her groom, 
and he descended from the phaeton and 
began to run toward Escalles. When he was 
gone she drew the apron back and made a 
place for me beside her. I entered the 
carriage unprotestingly. The antidote that 
I sought to my own heavy fatigue was 
here, sent by my Destiny, upon the Paris 

" Agnes," I exclaimed abruptly, " why do 
you say that I should leave Calais ? " 

" I say it for my father's sake. You will 
carry his good name to England and it will 
be in safe keeping. He has many enemies 
here. Sadi Martel is one of them. That is 
why he took you to the forts." 

" Forts — the works at Escalles are forts, 
then ? " 

She looked up at me with wondering eyes. 

" What else should I call them — the har- 
bour-forts and the coal-mines ? " 

I did not answer her, but I thanked God 
for the words. The woman that I loved 
knew nothing, then. 

" Let us understand it all, Agnes. Martel 
does not like your father, but how do I help 
him ? " 

" By going to the works. He will say that 
you are here, in Calais, with my father's 
sanction. If you did not leave to-night, they 
would arrest you to-morrow. You will go 
because I ask it of you." 

" Show me a way, and I will sail by the 
first steamer. Don't you see that it is all 
impossible ? They will arrest me at the first 
gate we pass. Of course they will. What's 
the good of deceiving ourselves ? " 

It was a despairing, pitiful confession 
enough, but a woman's braver heart gave 
me absolution. The answer was a touch 
upon my arm and a pretty word of the old 

" We shall not pass the first gate. Captain 
Alfred. We shall go in by the Porte de St. 

" But that's on the east side." 

" It was yesterday " 

" Explain, little guide, I am like a child 

" Tlie blind lead the blind round the town 
of Calais. There is Fort Nieulay. The 
chasseur who passed us will be waiting for 
you there." 

" I understand that. He will wait at the 
Porte St. Pierre " 

" And we shall avoid the Porte St. Pierre. 
That is why I sent Jacques to Escalles. 
They cannot question him." 

Her prescience amazed me. I sat back in 
the phaeton and wondered at the ingratitude 
of my unbelief. For in my heart of hearts 
I said that a miracle alone could save me 
from the soldiers of France that night. 

" Oh ! " I cried at last desperately, " if I 
could believe in anything at all but the 
cliasseiir at Porte St. Pierre ! Of course the 
man will stop us. He will send to every 
gate in Calais and search every carriage." 

Her calmness was amazing. 

" Not Colonel Lepeletier's carriage," she 
said quietly. 

" Perhaps not ; but you cannot hide five- 
foot-eleven in the moonlight, Agnes." 

"We shall not try. We shall put five- 
foot-eleven under the hood. I thought of 
it at once. The road to St. Omer is over 
there by the cottage. We will open the 
hood before we turn. When you are in 
Calais you must send to Mr. Fordham and 
he will help you. I will go to him myself, 
for they would be waiting for you at the 
hotel. To-morrow you write to me from 

" Every day — it would not be a day if I 
forgot. You wish that, Agnes ? " 

We were at the turn of the road by this 
time, and she reined her ponies in. The 
new note we had struck troubled her. She 
sat very still and thoughtful. 

"I wish your happiness," she said at 
length, as one speaking in a reverie. I read 
her doubt of it in the words. 

Long minutes passed before we spoke 
again. Above all the confusion and clamour 
of that night her presence was as some call 
to courage and recollection. I could think 
more clearly, act more resolutely now than 
at any moment from the beginning of it ; 
and I seemed to realise that she and I, the 
little, bright-eyed girl and the man who loved 
her beyond all that life could give him, were 
battling for their happiness there, two miles 
from Calais, upon the Paris road. 

There is a cart-road across the fallow, a 
little way from Fort Nieulay, and three miles, 
it may be, from the western gate of the town. 
I had passed it many a time when my auto- 
mobile rushed on to Boulogne, but thought 



" When he was gone she drew the apron back and made 
a place for me beside her." 

it no more than a farmer's drive to an old 
white house upstanding above the sand-dunes 
which are Calais's ramparts. Now, however, 
we turned the ponies to this track and began 
to follow it quickly. I judged that it w^ould 
bring us round to the southern gate, and so 
to the Porte St. Omer and the Dunkerque 
road ; and this conclusion was justified 
presently, wdien the lights of the ships dis- 
appeared from our view, and even the harbour 
beacon became but a loom of iridescence in 
the sky. Every yard we drove now w^as a 
new^ landmark of our safety. The shadows 

of the unlighted road enveloped us so that 
any horseman riding yonder tow^ard the fort 
would need a hawk's eye to discover us. 
And there was always the hood ! I began 
to tell myself that my little guide had reason, 
after all. 

" Agnes," I said at length, " I must see 
your father to-night." 

She became very grave at the words and 
for a little while afterwards was silent. 
" Why should you see my father .? " 
" To convince him of my honesty." 
" Has he doubted it, Captain Alfred ? " 



" At least, he will hear MarteFs story. I 
owe it to you that he shall hear mine." 

" He will hear it from me. If you would 
help Sadi Martel, you will go to our house 

" But the others will be there." 

" For the news of your arrest, yes. That 
is why Sadi Martel went yesterday. My father 
l)elieves in your honour as he believes in his 

" ' Bon soir, mademoiselle.' " 

own. I shall tell him why you left Calais to- 

"If I leave it. That depends upon 
Martel, does it not ? There is a steamer, of 
course ; but others are not likely to forget 
the fact." 

She would not hear such a gloomy story. 

"Mr. Fordham will help you," she said 
quickly. " If you wait for him by the Jardin 
Kichelieu, I will drive myself to the hotel and 
send him. Is prudence so difficult a thing?" 

She laid a little gloved hand upon my arm 
and I took it in my own. It was pretty to 
hear her talk of prudence, this very child 

guiding the hunted man. And I said that 
the hour was odd beyond belief — the hour 
which told me that I must leave France for 
my country's sake at a moment when all my 
hope of life was there in the town of Calais. 
For we were approaching the St. Omer gate 
now. I could hear the screech of railway 
whistles, the deeper sirens of the packet- 
boats, the faint murmur of activity at the 
railway-stations and the docks. 
But the road itself was deserted. 
A watchdog baying in a lonely 
house was the only herald of 
our approach. 

"Captain Alfred ! " she ex- 
claimed presently, " when you 
are in England you will remem- 
ber your friends in Calais ? " 

"There is nothing on earth 
that could make me forget 

" Then I shall know that my 
father's honour is in safe keep- 

I had feared this from the be- 
ginning — had feared it greatly ; 
but the reason of my fear I did 
not dare to confess. 

" If there is one man in 
France I would sooner serve 
than another," I said quickly, 
" it is Colonel Lepeletier. But 
I am a soldier. I must do my 
duty. I am going to England 
for that." 

" I pray God that your duty 
will not wound my father," she 

It was my prayer, too ; but 
then, in all the excitement of 
the night, and of what the 
night might mean, I would not 
think of it, would not ask 
myself the questions which to- 
morrow would bring. Vague 
ideas, shadows of thought, half -formed reso- 
lutions raced through my brain, to leave me 
without purpose or decision. The gate of 
Calais was the one concrete fact. I must 
pass the gate. 

We had raised the hood of the phaeton a 
quarter of a mile from the Porte St. Omer, 
and now, as we approached the barrier, the 
ponies lifted their feet at a touch of the whip 
and carried us at a fast trot to the octroi and 
the guards there. For my part, I did not 
believe it possible that any carriage might 
pass that gate unchallenged, and I sat, far 
back among the cushions, with eyes half 



closed and nerves twitching, and all the 
tension of the doubt upon me. We could 
not pass — the notion was preposterous. I 
would have staked half my fortune upon the 
certainty of the challenge and that which 
must follow the challenge. When I heard a 
cheery " Bon soir, mademoiselle,'' from the 
keeper of the barrier, it seemed as some jest 
to herald that discovery. The man was peer- 
ing below the hood, I said. I could see his 
lantern, as the light of it danced from the 
road to the windows of his little house, or fell 
upon the brass of the harness, or glistened a 
moment on the very splash-board before us. 
He must know that I was there. And then 
— a miracle for laughter — we went on again. 
I heard Agnes telling me that the danger was 

Ah, little guide, could you have looked out 
that night at the darker road of life before us 
both, with what heavy steps should we have 
set out upon it ! 



The miracle, indeed, had happened, and, if 
you come to think of it, but a poor miracle, 
after all. When I look back to that night, 
the marvel is that I should have driven to 
the western gate with so poor a heart and 
such pitiful unbelief. For which of them, 
if it were not Martel, would have sought 
their man in a phaeton from the Dunkerque 
Road, and that phaeton driven by Colonel 
Lepeletier's daughter ? And what servant of 
the barrier would have found the courage 
thus to insult the commander of the garri- 
son ? A child's fear ! I grant it ; but it 
was very real to me. 

The barrier was behind us, in truth ; the 
broad Rue Victor Hugo before us. Never- 
theless, it needed no spur upon the memory 
to tell me that even here we were still at the 
beginning of it. How to get out of the 
town of Calais, now that I was in it, I knew 
no more than the dead. There was, I ad- 
mit, still with me that perturbation of mind, 
that inertia of will and excitement of 
thought which could shut out any realisation 
of the more momentous truths, and leave me 
with but one desire, one unchanged purpose. 
Minute by minute, as we drove on toward 
the Jardin Richelieu, this idea of flight 
began to possess me to the exclusion of all 
else. No plan there was in my head, no 
sure determination of means, but only the 
will to escape the town and the shore if I 

might, and to carry my momentous secret to 
England. I would not hear that other voice 
of argument which said, " Delusion, delusion ! 
you have seen but a coal-shaft, after all." A 
true instinct kept me to the path of duty. 

Such arguments, such hopes, I say, carried 
me in silence to the shadows of the Jardin 
Richelieu, where, for the last time, Agnes 
reined her ponies back, and I knew that I 
must say "Good-bye" to her. Until this 
moment, perhaps, I was but half conscious 
of all that she had done for me ; blind, it 
may be, to the unselfish courage of her girl- 
hood, unable to see that night's work as she 
saw it from the first. But in the instant of 
parting there came a repentance as swift as it 
was sure. I stood there to tell myself that 
I might never look upon her face again, 
might have touched her hand for the last 
time, might be uttering the last word I 
should ever speak to her. And God knows 
what that minute cost me. 

"Agnes," I said, "we shall never forget 

" Never, never," she faltered. 
"It is only au revoir. Next week, next 
month, I shall come to Calais again." 
The promise did not deceive her. 
" They will never let you do that." 
" Then you will come to me — to my Eng- 
land ? " 

She hid her face from me and I could 
hear her sobbing. The night had unnerved 
her. Farewell was making cowards of us 
both. And the moments might be precious 
beyond understanding. 

" You will save my father's honour ? " she 
cried, turning to me again and lifting a 
tear-stained face to mine. 

" His name shall be as that of my own 

" I will ask nothing more. In England 
you will remember, as I shall remember in 

" If the year passes by and you do not 
see me, mignonne, there will be no longer an 
Alfred Hilliard to forget." 

She drew my face down to hers at the 
word, as though to forbid an omen ; and, 
quickly remembering where we stood, she 
kissed my lips and so said farewell. 
" God guard you always." 
" And you, little Agnes— ah, little Agnes 
to me until my life's end." 

The carriage was away and in the shadows 
again while our words still echoed in the 
lonely street. I knew then that I had said 
" Farewell " to her, and it was as though 
some great impulse of my being had been 



carried away to the light and the voices 
beyond the' darkness. All about me the 
stillness of night reigned already in that 
dreary town. I heard the church bells 
striking the hour of nine, and the notes 
seemed to float above the houses musically, 
as above some abode of sleep and rest. But 
I w^as alone by the garden, and the step of a 
sergent de vUIp, who patrolled the neigh- 
bouring street, fell as the rhythm of a pen- 
dulum beating, so regular, so distinct it was. 
Would he come to me ? would he question 
me ? could I answer him ? What story 
should I tell if any stopped me ? Was 
Harry Fordham at the hotel, or had he 
delayed at Dunkerque ? I believe that I 
prayed for Harry's coming. Never had I 
known him resourceless or empty-headed as 
I was then. He W'ould find a w^ay — the 
readiest man I have ever knowm. 

A quarter of an hour passed, I think, 
before he came, striding along the street as 
some strong man upon a pressing business. 
I had told myself, twenty times already, 
that he would never come, w^as not in Calais, 
might even be prevented by those who were 
waiting for me at the hotel. Every shadow^ 
by the gardens had been magnified until 
it became the figure of a spy. I imagined 
myself the victim of a hue and cry which a 
nation had raised— saw myself hemmed- in 
on every side, described, hunted, maligned. 
And here was Harry, pipe in mouth, his 
" solemn black " as negligent as ever, his 
greeting as hearty, his hand's grip as sure. 
I could have kissed him on both cheeks 
for the very joy of it. 

" Harry — ^you ! " 

He stared at me in bewilderment that was 
beautiful to see — up and down, up and down, 
as though his eyes would never have enough 
of it. 

" Son of my fathers, but you're a perfect 
spectacle. Where, in Heaven's name, man, 
did you decorate yourself ? " 

I stopped him at the first word of it. 

" In TOe Government works at Escalles. 
Jeffery asked me to see the forts. I never 
thought about it and followed him. He 
tried to arrest me as a spy and I knocked 
him down. That's wdiy I'm here." 

It takes a good deal to surprise Harry 
Fordham ; but if ever he was startled in his 
life, I should name that as the occasion. 
Twice must I repeat the story before he 
could make head or tail of it. And under- 
stand, of the greater secret, of that which I 
did not dare to think or speak, he had not a 

" Alfred, my son," he said at last, " it is 
plain that the air of Calais is not good for 
your constitution. You had better leave, 
my boy, by the first boat." 

" Where the police will be waiting for 

He linked his arm in mine and began to 
walk up and down the pavement by the 
garden. The pipe glow^ed as a furnace. It 
seemed to share the fire of his thoughts. 

" Let me get to the bottom of it," he 
continued as we went. " You w^ere trapped 
into the forts and saw the things which you 
ought not to have seen. Yery well, so far 
you acted like a schoolgirl miss ; but we 
will not gibbet you for that. The French- 
man, on the other hand, would like to gibbet 
you, and it will annoy him wdien he cannot. 
Good, twdce good. I am pleased to annoy 
all the Frenchmen I can, not loving the 
family. Your friend, Lepeletier, who is a 
very nice Frenchman, is also a gentleman. 
We will not annoy him, because we like him, 
and the best way not to annoy him is to make 
ourselves scarce. Ergo, we leave Calais 
to-night by the first boat " 

" As easy as striking a match. The police 
on the boat count for nothing. They won't 
lift a hand to prevent us—of course not. It's 
a way they have in Calais." 

He stopped a moment to light the pipe 
again and to permit a pedestrian to pass us. 
There was upon his face an amused smile, as 
though he would not, even yet, understand 
the moment of it ; but I knew that this was 
not the case, and my own impatience 
appeared to jog elbow^s with right-dow^n 

" If you want to show me a straight way 
to the lock-up, take me to the steamer," I 
continued savagely ; " even a child would 
know that. What's the good of shutting 
our eyes ? The police won't shut theirs." 
He was incorrigible, Harry, that night. 
" Is the first boat necessarily a steamer, 
my son ? " he asked presently. " Have you 
never seen any other boats in Calais Harbour 
but packet-boats ? And let me put another. 
How do you know that the police are at all 
interested ? If the man you knocked dow^n 
is better of his hurt, I admit the danger. 
But do you know that he is ? I don't, and 
I wdll believe when I do. As for the 
Meurice, you will find Frangois, the waiter, 
keeping a lonely vigil in the coffee-room 
because you are not there. We will return 
at once to dry up his tears. He will under- 
stand our boyish desire to cut capers at the 
Casino. All oris, done, we will go to the 



' Harry — vou ! ' 

Meurice. This is just a fool's rendezvous, 

He dragged me on with a strong arm, 
smoking the while as for his very life. To 
me it seemed that we were walking straight 
to the gates of the citadel prison ; but the. 
courage of the man was as irresistible as his 
logic ; and I went with him by the H6tel de 
Guise, by the theatre — to the Meurice itself, 
where arrest was sure. 

" Harry," I said at the very door, " to- 
morrow you will be at the Consulate 
demanding my release." 

He knocked the ashes from his pipe and 
laughed drily. 

" Bosh ! " he said. " To-morrow you will be 
on your way to Cottesbrook. Tell Lady 
Hilliard from me that her son has amused 
the Frenchmen very well, and that Harry 
Fordham is protesting against Popery in a 

check suit and a wideawake. 
If the new curate continues 
to preach for thiity minutes, 
I am coming home again for 
the honour of the village. 
Now, my brother, your best 
leg forward — and don't mind 
the chalk on your boots." 

He marched straight into 
the hotel, head erect, eyes 
w^atchful ; and I followed 
him, this strong, sane man 
who had gauged that situa- 
tion with an unerring instinct 
for the truth. When, in the 
precincts of the hall, no one 
stepped out of the shadows 
to cry, "Halt, there!" it 
seemed to me that some 
personal magnetism of the 
man was keeping the figures 
in the darkness. What of 
the chasseur who had ridden 
to the Porte St. Pierre, of 
the alarm I had heard at the 
workings, of Jeffery lying 
senseless in the tunnel ? All 
these meant nothing, then ? 
Or was Harry right, after all, 
and had Jeffery, recovering 
consciousness, been unable 
to tell them a coherent 
story? I dared to hope that 
this w^as so. The very 
civilities of those in the 
Meurice justified the assump- 
tion. Not a gesture of 
welcome or attention was 
changed. Fran9ois, the butler, 
stood there as though to say, " Command 
me, and I will die for you, at a price." 
The chambermaids raced to bring me 
hot water. Harry was a hundred times 

"Now," he said, when we were in his 
bedroom together, " be sensible and believe. 
Calais is not at all interested in your move- 
ments ; she is interested only in your purse. 
What she may be in half an hour's time I do 
not pretend to say, for in half an hour's 
time you will be on the sea. I am going 
fishing, sir, fishing on the deep blue ocean. 

You are coming, too, my brother " 

I stared at him open-mouthed. " Fishing ? 
Good Heavens, what a man ! " 

He continued in his bantering mood. 
" Fishing, as I say. Your comments are not 
reverent. Sir Alfred. The urgency of the 
moment forbids a proper penance, but you 



have just got to bustle. Come, now, into 
your dress-clothes, quick ! " 

I think that I regarded him as I should 
have regarded any maniac out of Bedlam 
who had come there to help me. He laughed 
at my protests and opened the door that I 
might cross the landing to my own bedroom. 

" Five minutes," he said ; " I give you five 
minutes. The police may be here in 
ten " 

" But if they come before ? " 

" Well, they trump our ace." 

He w^as playing a great game, nothing 
more. I said as much as I threw aside my 

The very civiUties of those in the Meurice justified the assumption." 

" While we 

Five minutes he had given me in which to 
dress, but three of them were left yet, when 
he came in my room and began to show^^less 
imperturbability than he had yet done. Even 
he was anxious, then ! I had imagined as 

"Well," he said, "does the tie set 
straight ? " 

" As straight as it will set to-night." 
" Good ; then we will go. Your fur coat, 
if you please, young gentleman. It will be 
cold at sea." 

"Harry," I exclaimed almost angrily, 
" why do you harp upon that nonsense ? " 

" I will tell you when 
we are outside. Mean- 
while I am in command. 
You will obey me im- 

" I am doing so, it 
appears — acting like a 
fool to amuse you." 

He ignored the petu- 
lant temper. 

" Come," he continued, 
laying a hand upon my 
arm in a kindly gesture, 
"is it not serious enough, 
old fellow? Ho not 
make it more so." 

" I am trying not to." 
"I hope so. Let us 
go down now. At the 
hureait you will ask 
what time the Casino 

I began to understand. 
This clever head w^as 
playing a master hand. 

" They will think that 
we have gone there." 

" If they are right- 
minded people, they 

muddy clothes and dressed myself with 
trembling fingers. The pohce might knock 
upon the door at any minute. He counted 
upon the delay, upon the supposition that 
Jeffery had given no coherent account of his 
mishap or of me. If this failed him--well, 
the alternative was the prison of the citadel ; 
and more— for there was that of which I 
would not think, my own hallucination, the 
nightmare I had lived through in the tunnel 
of Escalles. When I remembered this, I 
could start at any sound upon the landing. 
The chambermaid's knock sent my heart 
leaping. Where would it end? I said it 
was but beginning. 

" Are going fishing." 

He threw open the door at the words and 
descended the stairs as though the whole 
place belonged to him. At the lureau he 
stopped and waited for me to tell my story. 
I remember that I repeated the words as a 
schoolboy repeats a verse of poetry, withott 
any right sense of phrase or meaning. 
" What time did the Casino close ? " The 
man said, " Half -past ten, monsieur." I 
thanked him and, linking my arm in Harry's, 
went out toward the sea. 

The night had fallen clear and calm after 
the rain. There were few abroad, but at the 



corner of the Rue du Rampart a chasseur-a- 
cheval passed us at a canter. I knew that he 
was riding to the Meurice with news of 
me, and that we had escaped him by two 



We stood until the horseman had turned the 
corner of the Rue du Havre, and then went 
on with quickened steps towards the light- 
house and the railway. Neither of us spoke, 
for the story behind us needed no words. 
But Harry's lengthening stride betrayed 
him. I knew now that he feared for me as I 
had feared for myself in the hotel. 

Through the railway gates, by the wharves, 
straight on to the quay of the inner harbour, 
we went doggedly, silently, at a walk which 
threatened soon to become a run. Never 
once did Harry pause now or look behind 
him ; no word of explanation did he vouch- 
safe. Straight as a line he went to the 
harbour quay and the fishing fleet there, and 
I followed him without protest or comment. 
The figure of the chasseur loomed always in 
the mists behind me. I could indicate no 
better direction than that which carried us 
away from the shadows. 

We crossed the quay, I say, and came to 
one of the long ladders by w^hich you descend 
to the water and the boats. The tide had 
been making headw^ay since I quitted the 
beach by Blanc-Nez, and now it rushed and 
swirled about the huddled fishing-boats 
which were here preparing for their long 
night's work. In the instant of waiting at 
the ladder's head I remembered that Harry 
had often fished with old Jules Bordenave, 
the owner of five good smacks in Calais, and 
that there w^as no valid reason why he should 
not fish once more that night. To think 
that I had been unable to see, as it were, a 
yard before my nose, where this idea was 
hatched ! And now it appeared so simple a 
thing that I saw it as in a flash — I would 
not ask a single question. 

We descended the ladder, and, crossing a 
couple of smacks that lay warped close to the 
quay, we found old Jules Bordenave's boat 
the third from the ladder — a trim ship, 
lugger-rigged, as all the Frenchmen are, and 
ready, it appeared, for the night's work 
before her. There was no living thing on 
deck save a mangy dog which came up and 
licked our hands fawningly ; but Harry went 
straight to the cuddy aft, and diving down 

the wretched companion he dragged me after 
him to as close and stinking a hole as ever I 
have put my nose in since I was born. 

" Bon soir, Bordenave. We are here, you 

The fat fisherman, the very relic of a man, 
grimy, salted, broad-faced, struggled to his 
feet, and cuffing a lazy, barefooted lad who 
sprawled upon a bench, he made room for 
us and said something very quickly. I 
could not follow all of it, but Harry inter- 

" This is old Bordenave," he exclaimed by 
way of introduction. " He'd sell his soul for 
threepence-halfpenny. Say something about 
fishing. Lucky, wasn't it ? He sent word 
round to the hotel to-day asking me to 

I nodded my head and stammered a few 
words which seemed to amuse old Bordenave 
very much. Harry had fished with him 
often before. Our visit was no surprise— if 
my clothes were. 

" Monsieur was going to the Casino, but 
he changed his mind," Harry rattled on 
boisterously. " All Englishmen like to change 
their minds; it pleases them. We'll show 
him something better than dancing, eh, 
Bordenave ? " 

Bordenave smiled like a child at the 
mention of the Casino. 

" Ah ! " he said, " that costs dear, la-bas, 
the dancing. You will not catch any big 
fish there, monsieur. They are all thieves 
— they steal the corks out of all the bottles 
they can see. You are right to follow the 
Abbe Fordham. You shall dance because 
you are so well to-morrow." 

"And give you twenty francs to drink 
that same health," interposed Harry. " Well, 
w^e are quite ready, Bordenave, if you can go 

"At your service, monsieur. We shall have 
the water in ten minutes. There is plenty 
outside. A fresh night, messieurs, with a 
falling breeze. Will it be for long ? " 

" A good sail, Bordenave. Make Dover 
if you can. But you can't, of course you 
can't. I've bet my friend twenty louis you 
could. A hundred francs if you do." 

Old Bordenave stiffened up at the words. 

" Not make Dover ? Oh, we shall see, 
monsieur, we shall see. A hundred francs, 
you said ? " 

" And I'll give you another hundred, 
Bordenave," I interposed, in a jargon which 
was wonderful. "Not a word to any of 
your friends la-hauf, if they come asking 
after us. It's a wager, you know." 



The old fellow waited for no more, but 
went up the companion as though a spear- 
point drove him. Two hundred francs ! 
You must catch a lot of fish to make two 
hundred francs. If anything saved us that 
night, it would be greed, I said. But 
we were one-and-twentj miles from safety 
still, and if I live a thousand years I shall 
never hunger for a sight of the cliffs of 
Dover as I hungered for them in those 
moments of delay. For we were alone then, 
Harry and I, in the stinking cabin. A dirty 
lamp cast a wan jet of light upon our pale 
faces ; it seemed to mock our odd attire. 
Each knew of what the other thought ; no 
question was put or answered. The chasseur 
who had ridden to the Meurice, what was 
his occupation ? Dancing at the Casino, 
perhaps. Desperation of thought is akin to 
farce ; you tell yourself any nonsense when 
you are really afraid. 

" Harry," I said, when old Bordenave had 
gone up, " it's ten to one we are boarded." 

He took out his pipe and began to fill it. 

" The Cloth doesn't bet," he said, " or I'd 
lay twenty. There was once a parson at 
Derby who saw two dogs fighting in the 
aisle of his church. He was one of the old 
sporting kind. When he had rebuked his 
flock for the attention they paid to the dogs, 
and found they wouldn't listen to him, he 
said, ' Well, my brethren, if you won't have 
the Gospel, I'll lay two to one on the 
black ! ' The good old times are gone, my 
brother. I have even had a dear old soul 
threaten to write to my bishop because I 
play golf. She said that I was heard to say, 
'Damme one.' What I really said was 
'Dormy one.' There is a considerable 
difference from an ecclesiastical standpoint." 

He lit his pipe and went rambling on 
again — stories, jests, any flippant talk to keep 
my thoughts from the quay above and those 
who might appear upon the quay presently. 
And just as I understood those surpassing 
minutes of delay, so did he understand them. 
To be caught there in the cabin of old 
Bordenave's boat would be the ultimate 
ignominy. If we could but get to sea, away, 
if it were but a mile from that cursed town 
of Calais, a man might dare to breathe again. 
But it held us as a prison. Would the smack 
never weigh ? I asked. How Bordenave 
and his crew raved and ranted on the deck 
above ! You would have thought that the 
railway-station was on fire, or the Hotel de 
Ville. But it was nothing, nothing at all — 
only an argument with a neighbouring 
fisherman. And now the lamp began to 

swing in the musty cabin. The seas, lapping 
upon our sides, beat the bows of the smack 
more heavily. We lifted to them and sank 
again. The cries of rage and fury were 
changed to the methodical words of command. 
I knew that we were at sea ; and when 
Harry rose and cried, " Thank God ! " the 
chain of my nervous tension snapped as at a 
blow, and the sweat poured down my face 
like rain. 

" Thank God ! We are out of the harbour, 
my son. Do you feel her lifting ? She is 
making what our friends upstairs call the 
chenal. They are using the sweeps to get 
her out. You will be in Dover before sunrise, 
old fellow." 

I threw off my heavy fur coat and wiped 
the perspiration from my face. 

"It's worse than forty minutes in the 
Grafton county. I shall die for want of 

He sat down upon the bench again and 
struck another match. 

" If the moon behaves decently, we'll go 
upstairs in ten minutes. My pipe's out, you 
observe. A man who lets his pipe out has 
been thinking pretty badly. Let me see you 
smoke and I'll begin to believe in you." 

I felt in the pocket of my coat for a pipe 
and filled it deliberately. As bad a sailor as 
ever ventured upon a " pleasure " ship at 
Margate, the excitement of the night drove 
all thought of sickness from my head, and 
found me, for the first time in my life, able 
to smoke upon a ship. And Harry was 
talking again now. I said that he would 
talk all the way to Dover. 

" I want to hear the story again," he 
exclaimed, when the pipe was going. " Let us 
have it from the beginning — the whole thing, 
and no cuts. I must get to the bottom of 
it — if T can." 

I settled myself upon the bench and told 
him the whole of it this time. 

"As Heaven is my witness," I said, "I 
believe that the French are trying to make a 
tunnel to England as we contemplated making 
one to France some years ago. You under- 
stand now why my wits are gone wandering." 

He thought upon it for a little while with- 
out any of those haphazard conclusions which 
are my trouble. I envied his power of 
silent reasoning ; but I knew that he would 
jest no more. 

" Let us pan it out," he replied, with his 
composure unruffled. "You go to Escalles, 
and a man takes you down a cutting at the 
Government works there, and shows you a 
tunnel running under the sea. We, in 


descended the ladder, and, crossinp: a couple of smacks that lay warped close to the qua}-, 
we found old Jules Bordenave's boat." 



England, know that the French are under- 
taking great schemes on the coast, and the 
official explanation to onr Government is 
that they are marine works and coal-shaftings. 
That accounts for the swarm of w^orkmen, 
the engines, the earth, and all the rest of it. 
But, my dear fellow, if they had greater 
designs, if, as a supposition, they were 
making a tunnel, don't you think that 
one of those workmen would giYQ it away, 
and that our Intelligence people would hear 
of it in twenty-four hours ? Why, of course 
they would. There 
has never yet been 
a great surprise of 
war sprung upon 
one nation by an- 
other, and there 
never will be. What 
you saw was a shaft 
to reach the coal 
which French geo- 
logists believe to be 
under Cap Blanc- 
Nez. Your nerves 
were all wrong, and 
you w^ent at your 
conclusions head- 
long, like a baby 
horse at its first 
fence. The man 
who was with you 
forced his own 
ideas upon you and 
you accepted them. 
He would be pleased 
enough to see you 
arrested, but not 
for the reasons you 
imagine. Gherchez 
la femme, and you 
understand his 
game. A threat to 
Lepeletier accounts 
for all that 
happened at the 
ColonePs house the 

other night. Jeffery named you to his 
superiors as a spy, and enticed you into the 
tunnel. I have undone the lid of the trap, 
' and here we are a mile from Calais already. 
Confess that nothing remains but for you to 
lie by at Cottesbrook for a month or so, and 
for me to return to Lepeletier and to have 
it out with him. But I shan't mention a 
tunnel, because I don't believe in one." 

I heard him to the end without protest, 
and then put my own case. His logic was 
unanswerable from his point of view. But I 

had seen that which neither he nor any other 
of my countrymen will ever see. Minute by 
minute my mental vision became clearer. I 
could build up the arguments for myself now. 

"Ask yourself two or three questions, 
Harry," I said quietly, for the very subject 
gripped the mind as in a vice. " In the first 
place, did our own engineers believe that it 
was impossible to build a tunnel from Dover 
to Calais ? " 

" They convinced Gladstone and Watkin, 
at any rate." 

The old fellow waited for no more, but went up the companion."' 

'' There was talk, I know, about the 
trouble of levels and ventilation, but the 
scheme was supported by any amount of 
money, and the sanity of Parliament alone 
saved us from it. Yery well, what we can 
do the French can do. That is my first 

" Go on, my dear fellow — I admit all that." 

"And, admitting it, you open the door for 

my second. If it is possible to build a 

tunnel from Calais to Dover, I don't see why 

a nation, which from the days of Napoleon 



lias invited madcap schemes for the invasion 
of England, should not turn to this scheme. 
Here is a dare-devil engineer who comes to 
them and says, ' You are tunnelling for coal 
under the sea at Escalles. Grive me per- 
mission and I will carry you a shaft through 
to Dover.' If they listen to him, the next 
point is to cover their intentions. They 
plead before Europe their marine works, a 
great harbour scheme such as we are planning 
at Dover. That permits them, as you say, 
to accumulate stores, workmen, and engines. 
The thousands of tons of earth they bring 
out are not measured by English spades. 
They watch the works as they watch their 
forts, and no stranger until to-night has 
come within a quarter of a mile of them. 
An Intelligence Department given to somno- 
lence is apt to take Government pretensions 
as they find them. It lightens the burden 
of responsibility and is a cloak for laziness. 
x\dmit that our Intelligence Department has 
done this, and all else follows. The scheme 
is daring to the point of fatality ; but it is 
not half so wild as many a scheme of invasion 
to which France has listened during the last 
twenty years. That, at least, is my first 
opinion. I do not think that I shall change 
it to-morrow." 

He listened to me with growing interest. 
That terrible doubt of the problem served 
one purpose at least, the purpose of causing 
us to forget where we stood and the danger 
which encompassed us about. I was obli vious, 
I think, of the very fact that we were on a 
ship in the outer channel of Calais Harbour. 
Harry, in his turn, was as serious as ever I 
had seen him since the day the Bishop 
ordained him at Ely Cathedral. 

"Alfred, old fellow," he said, "I could 
pray God that all you tell me this night is 
imagination. If it's that, to-morrow will be 
the end of it. If not, you have a great 
work to do in England. For my part, my 
mind is in a mist, and I cannot see where 
your thoughts are going to. You say the 
pretext of a harbour covers the swarm of 
workmen at Escalles ; but what of their 
tongues when they are outside the works ? 
Why does none of them write a word to our 
people, offering the secret for a money pay- 
ment ? Is it possible to believe in the silence 
of a couple of thousand ? " 

" Always supposing that a couple of thou- 
sand are in the-secret." 

" Ah ! I hadn't thought of that." 

" But I had. The men who passed me in 
the tunnel were not ouvriers at all. I should 
not have called them navvies or even 

mechanics. They looked to me like skilled 
engineers. And I ask you, what if these 
men are a chosen hundred to carry the secret 
through unknown to the mob above ? It 
might be so, Harry." 

He lit his pipe and nodded his head 

" Yes, I see that ; and when the work was 
done at Escalles, there would be Dover to 
consider. What are they doing at Dover, 
my son ? " 

" Heaven only knows ! If ever I see 
Dover again I will tell you." 

He stood up and went to the companion 
hatch. The movement itself betrayed his 
restlessness of thought and idea. Presently 
he said, "You will make Dover, anyway. 
The lights of Calais are a mile behind us." 

I rose to follow him, but at the foot of 
the companion he put his hand upon my 
shoulder again. 

" Remember," he continued, " you may 
have a great work to do in England, Alfred 
Hilliard. Few would do it better. God 
bless you, old fellow, whatever it may be ! " 

I went up after him to the fresh air and 
the sweetness of the night ; but his words 
remained with me. In England, my country, 
I might yet find a great work to do. 



There had been a full gale blowing from 
the north - east when the rainstorm burst 
upon Escalles some hours ago ; but the wind 
had fallen with the night, and now it was no 
more than a fresh breeze, sweeping down 
Channel from the east and permitting the 
lugger to carry every sail she could set. A 
trim sea boat, speedy as all luggers are, she 
lay upon a course north by west, and met 
the tumbling swell with good l30ws that 
lifted her dripping decks triumphantly above 
the angry crests. She would make Dover in 
four hours, or five at the most, it appeared. 
Old Bordenave named four ; but he loved 
the ship with a woman's heart. And an 
hour more or less, how would that help us ? 
" You wish to fish. Monsieur I'Abbe. No ? 
Well, it's all the same to me. We shall have 
a good night, messieurs. Gris-Nez is very 
bright, but that is the rain. You see the 
Foreland in a mist and you say, ' Tres Men.' 
When he shines in a ring, take care. If we 
had been fishing to-night we should not 
have made our fortunes. Tres bien, we will 
not fish." 



I laughed when he called Harry "Mon- 
sieur TAbbe," and I dubbed mj friend so 
from that hour. He has been "Monsieur 
FAbbe " to all Northamptonshire since that 
day. The cloak of the jest came as a pall 
upon our anxieties, and we were still laughing 
together when the boy at the tiller called 
out — 

" The rocket, messieurs, look at the 

A sudden hush fell upon the ship. Yonder, 
by Escalles, someone had fired a rocket out- 
ward above the sea, and from the citadel at 
Calais another rocket ascended in an orbit of 
gold-blue light. A second and a third signal 
from Escalles remained unanswered from the 
fort ; but away towards the west, by Gris-Nez 
and the coast, other rockets shot up from 
other stations, until it seemed that the bows 
of flame were arched in the sky to make a 
great chain of fire from Calais Fort to 
Boulogne Harbour. 

We watched the lights with a curiosity 
which prevailed above words. Old Bordenave 
alone was amused by them. 

" Regardez p^," he said good-humouredly. 
" That is how they keep themselves warm at 
Escalles. One, two, three, nom de Dieu, it is 
a fete, then ! We shall want a bottle of 
wine to dance to that. Monsieur TAbbe. 
And another from Wissant ! Then some 
poor devil is out of the prison. There was 
one last week, and they shot him under the 
wall of the harbour works. I do not like 
to hear of that — I am too old. Give me law 
and order and the long legs, Abbe. And 
God send an open door for that poor 

In my heart I said " Amen " devoutly, 
and when the old man turned to me he found 
a ready seconder. Nevertheless he looked 
at me a little closer than he had done, and 
afterwards he stood to learn if any boat were 
coming out of Calais Harbour. But we were 
alone there. Other smacks, it is true, lay 
beyond us toward Dover and the open sea ; 
but no vessel swam in the hither water 
between Calais Harbour and the lugger. 
And the wind fell to the softest of breezes. 
We should never make Dover in four hours, 
I told myself — perhaps not in ten. 

" That bottle of wine, Bordenave," I ex- 
claimed, seeking to draw him from the deck ; 
" we were in such a hurry to go fishing with 
you that we forgot to dine. If you have a 
biscuit and a glass of wine I will say that 
your boat is not to be beaten between Finis- 
terre and Flamborough Head. Come, there 
is a bottle of wine aboard, ancient ? " 

The old man heard me affably enough. 
He was one of those thirsty souls who lick 
their lips whenever they hear a cork go pop ; 
and at the word " wine " the sun seemed to 
shine upon him again. 

" Ah ! " he exclaimed, as though he meant 
nothing at all by the remark, "then you 
came away in a hurry, monsieur ? " 

Harry was up in arms in a moment. 

"Captain Hilliard is always in a hurry 
when the ladies are about, Bordenave. He 
thought he was going to the Casino. X hon 
entendeur. He left his dinner for Us beaujo 
yeux. And now he's starving. Give him a 
biscuit and he will show you a splendid set 
of teeth — all his own, too." 

Bordenave looked at me again, at my 
dress-suit, my fur coat, perchance at my 
haggard face — for the hotel glass had shown 
me how haggard it was. But, whatever his 
suspicions might have been, he was either 
too avaricious or too benevolent to think 
more of them ; and with a word that might 
have meant nothing, or might have meant a 
good deal, he led the way down the companion 
into the stinking cabin again. 

" Let us go below, Abbe. Sometimes it is 
good to be where people cannot see you. If 
the Captain is hungry, we will take care of 
him. I am hungry myself, and I have no 
teeth, vous savez, AH the. better to rob the 
dentists — the thieves who say, ' Buy your 
teeth of me, and I will take your old ones 
away for nothing.' If they would send their 
fireworks up for the dentists I would say 
' Bravo ! ' This way, messieurs, and mind 
the dog." 

Chattering and laughing always, he made 
a place for us on the benches of the cabin and 
produced his treasures. The assortment was 
odd, to the point of laughter. A roll of 
coarse sausage, rich and abundant ; some 
cooked fish in a piece of blue paper ; a yard 
of delicious white bread, and butter abun- 
dantly. For the rest, onions, beetroot, an old 
coffee-pot, milk in a basin, and three bottles 
of harsh vin du pays, sharp, heavy, acrid, 
honest. I have dined under curious circum- 
stances many times in my life, but never as I 
dined then. In spite of all, of the pathos, 
the pity, the fear of that which I had 
undergone, my hunger would have satisfied a 
gourmand. And the stimulating properties 
of the raucous wine found me grateful. 
They gave me a Dutch courage, which at 
least permitted me to forget that rockets 
were being fired from the heights of Blanc- 
Nez, and that the long night must pass 
before we made Dover Harbour. 



"'The rocket, messieurs, look at the rocket.'" 

" Well, skipper, ifc will be four lioiirs, yet, 
don't you think? " 

" Give me a wind, monsieur, and it shall 
be three." 

" But if the wind drops ? " 

" A sensible question," chimed in Harry. 
" If the wind drops we shall get out and 

push. What do you say, Bordenave, shall 
we get out and push ? " 

" Oh, the Abbe is master here. If he thinks 
that he can walk upon the sea — tres Men. 
I remember a fellow who made shoes in 
which to walk from Gris-Nez to Folkestone. 
Saprisfi ' what shoes they were ! He was 




drowned off Wissant, and we buried liim with 
his shoes in the cemetery there. That is the 
way with all those fellows. They have it all 
in their heads and then they try to teach the 
sea. The sea says * No,' and down they go." 
" As the man in the flying machine," said 
I. " When I was a youngster I saw one fall 
headlong, at Knightsbridge, in London. I 
could see him clawing at the air as he came 
down. He fell with a sickening thud which 
I hear now when I dream. It was just as 
though all his bones went snap at once." 

secret, I would have staked a fortune 
on it. 

" The sea, by all means," cried Harry, 
raising his glass willingly ; " the sea, and the 
skipper of the smack Hirondelle, I drink 
to you, Bordenave. You will make Dover, 
after all." 

The old seaman emptied a mug of wine at 
a draught and filled another pipe. 

" The Abbe said a hundred francs " 

" And the Abbe's friend another 

' The French crew watched me with an amazed silence." 

"Pray for his soul," cried Bordenave, 
" God has not meant us to fly, monsieur. If 
He had, we should have found the place where 
the wings go on. I do not want to fly, and I 
am happy. The earth is good enough for 
me — the earth and the sea. Fill your glass. 
Abbe, and drink to the sea. You owe her 
something to-night, do you not ? " 

I looked up quickly at Harry and caught 
his warning glance. The rockets at Gris-¥ez 
had not been fired in vain, then ! This 
cunning old Frenchman could share their 

" I thank you, messieurs ; two hundred 
francs, then." 

" And another hundred for the excellent 
supper w^e have eaten. You must permit me 
to pay for that, Bordenave." 

" Ah, monsieur, if I should object ? " 

" Then there's the wine, Bordenave — would 
a hundred francs ? " 

''NomdelJieu! — four hundred francs; and 
all for making Dover Harbour. You shall be 
there at three o'clock, messieurs. If you 
wish to go back again to-morrow, I will come 



and call for you. Four hundred francs — 
but I shall grow rich." 

In this way was the compact made. I 
have no doubt at all that the grasping old 
rascal knew from that moment, at least, the 
plainer facts of our story, and the meaning 
of the rockets which Escalles had fired. An 
Englishman sought to escape from France 
and would not go by the packet-boat. He 
offered four hundred francs for the passage. 
Very good ; old Bordenave was quite willing 
to be corrupted. He rather liked it. 

" Finish your wine at your ease, messieurs. 
I am going upstairs to whistle for a wind. 
If there are any more fireworks, I will tell 
you. The Abbe's friend may wish to lie 
down^ — eh, monsieur ? You would not have 
all the people see you on deck ? " 

"As you please, Bordenave. But I am 
very tired to-night." 

" Then you shall >sleep, monsieur. I will 
call you when I make the quay. Four 
hundred francs ! Mon Dieu ! you shall 
certainly see Dover." 

He went away, and presently the pattering 
feet above our head spoke of business on deck 
and the changing of the sails. For my 
part, fatigue was telling upon me again ; and 
that and the wine contrived an indolent state 
of mind wherein nothing is very real or very 
fearful to us. • One anxiety alone troubled 
me. I must be sure of Harry's friendship at 

"I leave it to you, Harry, to bring 
Lepeletier to reason," said I. " There is no 
one else I could ask or would ask. You 
know that ? " 

He smiled at my simplicity. 

" Man," he said, "is it really Lepeletier 
about whom you are so anxious ? " 

" You will tell him just what I have told 
you — saving that which you call my imagina- 

He was serious in an instant. 

" Yes," he said ; " it would be well to say 
nothing about that. When you are at Dover 
you can write and tell me how far you are 
justified or I am foolish." 

And then he went on flippantly again — 

" At Dublin, the Viceroy kisses all the 
debutantes, you know. I wonder if the 
custom holds in mere embassies. To-morrow, 
remember, I represent you at the Court of 
Lepeletier. Eeally, my dear fellow, it should 
not be difficult where Mademoiselle Agnes is 

It was my turn to be serious. 

" Oh," said I, " I have done with that." 

" Done with it ? Hark to him. Done 

with the prettiest thing in France. Shame 
on you, my son ! I will bring her to 
Cottesbrook myself before the mouth is 

" I wish to Heaven you could, Harry." 

" Oh, but I shall. I am determined upon 
it. The place wants waking up, and she 
will do it. Does she ride, think you ? 
Imagine the spleen of forty- two dowagers 
who have daughters ready for you." 

" They will be very angry, certainly." 

" And your mother. I would give much 
to see the day when Lady Hilliard first 
kisses little Agnes Lepeletier." 

" I would give half my fortune, Harry." 

He had mentioned my mother's name, 
which I never hear but some picture of my 
childhood and of a mother's life is conjured 
up thereby and set for me in a frame of the 
past most precious. And now a picture 
came again as I lay resting on the cabin 
bench, and the swish of the seas we breasted 
was a sleep song. Cottesbrook, my home, 
with its pastures, its old-world people, its 
woods, its dells, its Abbey house — how far 
off it seemed ! One face alone I missed from 
the house of my dreams— the face of her 
who had told me an hour ago that we should 
never meet again, that a gulf impassable was 
set between us. Would Agnes ever reign at 
Cottesbrook ? Aye, God alone could answer 
that question. I could not lift the veil of 
the future which loomed so darkly. Dream- 
ing, I saw my home ; but the sun did not 
shine upon it, and there was darkness in the 

A troubled sleep I slept in that miserable 
cabin, but a sleep which left me refreshed 
when Harry waked me and told me to go 
on deck with him. He was wearing oil- 
skins then, and the lamp's wan light showed 
the dull, leaden drops of water upon his cape, 
and the pallor of the face which looked down 
to mine. But I was still heavy with the 
dream, and did not understand him at 

" What is it ? What do you say ? Have I 
been asleep ? What a fool ! " 

He gave me a hand from the bench and 
turned towards the companion. 

" Old Bordenave is curious," he said. " A 
tug has followed the fishing fleet from Calais 
and is searching some of the ships. You'd 
better come on deck, for it will be our turn 

I went up after him with leaden steps. It 
was no surprise to me. Eeason had told me 
from the first that I must answer for the 
night in the citadel of Calais. 





I HAD thought that it was yet dark when 
Harry waked me ; hut when w^e went up to 
the deck the greyer hghts of dawn were in the 
west ; and eastward the sun came up above 
the waters as a ball of fire new kindled and 
mellow. All about us the lazy sea caught the 
morning's beams and tossed them in jewels of 
the spindrift. The coast of France was no 
longer white above our horizon. Dover her- 
self, as a picture cut in stone, stood above the 
waters dominatingly, in silent, unwaked 
majesty, the very type of a fortress town. 
We were not a mile from the Admiralty Pier, 
not a mile from safety and the shore. The 
new harbour works shaped clear in the break- 
ing rays of sunHght, and beyond them I could 
distinguish the big hotels, the ramparts of the 
Castle, St. Mary's Church as a nest upon the 
chff side. In fifteen minutes, I said, we 
should have passed the harbour gates, for the 
tide served. Why, then, was old Bordenave 
curious ? 

" Yonder, Captain," he cried, " yonder is 
the Calais tug. Look for yourself. They 
have just stopped La llouette, and my 
friend Becu. He would be two miles from 
here, perhaps. It will be our turn next, the 
Abbe says. Very well, if the Captain does 
not mind ! " 

An odd sensation came over me while he 
spoke. It was not altogether fear, it was 
not a sudden consciousness of danger. To- 
day I should call it excitement pure and 
simple —exactly the same sensation as comes 
to a man who waits for the start of a race in 
which he is a runner. Pursuit had dogged 
me all night as a shadow ; but the morning 
sun brought it to the light. We played no 
longer in the dark. 

"Are you sure of what yousay, Bordenave ? " 
I asked as quietly as I could. " Are there no 
steam- trawlers with your fleet ? " 

He put his hands deep into his pockets and 
puffed quickly at his pipe. 

" Look here. Captain ! " he exclaimed 
bluntly, "if you do not want to see your 
friends from Calais, I would say, Be off as 
quickly as you can." 

We all laughed, in spite of ourselves, at his 
way of putting it, Harry louder than the rest 
of us. 

" Where are your wings, Bordenave ? " he 
cried now. " Give the Captain a" pair and he 
will fly to Dover. You say there is no wind ? " 

" Not enough to lift a flag, Abbe. - Look 
at the sail yonder. Does thafc say wind ? " 

" But you could row me ashore in the 
dinghy ? " I suggested. 

Bordenave turned and looked me full in 
the face. 

" They are blind on the steamer, then, 

" You mean that they would be here before 
we could get ashore." 

" They will be here in twenty minutes 
— less if you put a boat out. Do not 
trust them, Captain ; thev have good 

Harry stamped his foot. 

" Then, in Heaven's name, how is the 
man to get ashore ? " 

" Messieurs," replied the skipper with some 
difficulty, " I have done my best." 

We fell to silence and to watching the 
distant ships. Dawn found the sea as a lake ; 
the hour of slack water was nearly done, I 
imagined. Two miles away or more, towards 
the cliffs of France, a tug lay near a French 
smack, and had put out a boat to board her. 
I realised that in ten minutes the same boat 
might be hailing the HirondeVe. 

" Harry," I said, turning to him with the 
sure knowledge that he could not help me, 
" I must get ashore somehow," 

" I agree," he answered gravely. 

"The longer we wait, the greater the 
chance for those fellows to understand." 

" There is only one way, Alfrcd„" 

" I am going to take it, Harry," ,, 

He wrung my hand, but said nothing. ; My 
fur coat lay on the deck now, and my bpots 
were quickly beside it. The French crew 
watched me with an amazed silence which 
was eloquent of their thoughts. Already the 
smoke from the tug's funnel drifted from the 
hither sea and began to shut out the view of 
the smack and the boat. There was no time 
to lose. I stood up in my vest and drawers, 
and rolling my lighter clothes in a bundle I 
tied them round my neck. Even then I could 
remember my sovereign-purse and the case 
which held my money. I should have need 
of them ashore. 

" I must get to Dover, Harry." 

" God bless you, old fellow^ ! but it's worth 

" You will see Agnes to-morrow ? " 

" Of course I shall." 

" Tell her that I remember my promise." 

" Monsieur, monsieur, the tug is moving 

Old Bordenave spoke. I did not look 
behind me, and without another word to 
them dived into the sea. There was only one 
idea in my mind. At any cost I must reach 

^-r- ' *-.c .,. - ' -Va^.,^..-:/ ,.^ji 

' I consoled myself from the first with the assurance that the pier was not a mile away." 



Dover Harbour — the shores of my own 

I had plunged well away from the stern of 
the smack, and so sheltered by it that I 
accounted myself safe, at least, for the 
moment, from any observation by those upon 
the tug. The sea struck cold as ice upon the 
head, but the first vigorous strokes sent the 
warming blood through my veins, and 
turning upon my side I began to work 
strongly for the Admiralty Pier. I remember 
well that I consoled myself from the first 
with the assurance that the pier was not a 

then, but of those behind me I would not 
think. All that Harry had said was said by 
me again, and again. If I had been the 
victim of imagination — very well, my escapade 
could hurt no one. H, on the other hand, I 
had learned a truth so great that I feared to 
speak of it even to my oldest friend — why, 
then I was a thousand times justified of that 
which I did. The very doubt helped my 
resolution. I was not a mile from England, 
and in England I had a great w^ork to do. 
Never did man swim in the sea for a stake so 
terrible or for a shore so dear. 

' He lifted me as a child from the sea to his boat." 

mile away, and that I had swum a mile many 
a time in the great lake at Cottesbrook. 
From the smack's deck I could distinguish 
the very porters waiting by the morning train 
for the packet-boat from Calais. Those fellows 
would be astonished when a half -naked man 
came up to their carriages, I said. And I 
should find myself ashore with a pair of 
soaked flannels and a flannel coat weighing 
any number of wet pounds ; but it would be 
upon the shore of England, and to-moiTOW 
my work would begin. Subtly and calmly 
my mind was busy already with the great 
uncertainty. I could think of twenty things 

The sea was calm, a great lake rolling 
lazily in the sun of the morning. From the 
smack's deck I had seen the houses of Dover 
as in some mighty scene of a play ; but now, 
from the level of the water, they appeared a 
great way off, as though a hand had rolled 
them back for my despair, and set a greater 
gulf between the swimmer and the shore. 1 
knew that my deceptive vision tricked me, 
and took no thought of it, but only of that 
which lay behind me, and of the tug, which 
I began to remember when the first energy 
of flight had passed. Had I been observed 
by the Frenchmen, or did old Bordenave's 



boat still shield me ? Once as I turned upon 
my back to breathe I beheld the still sea 
behind me and the smack hove to, and be- 
yond it the squat steamer, with smoke pouring 
from its twin funnels and crests of foam at 
its bows. Doubt was possible no longer. 
The tug was making for the Hirondelle, and 
in ten minutes a boat from it would follow 

I rested but an instant and then was upon 
my side again. 

It is one thing to swim at leisure, for the 
love of it, knowing that you may turn to the 
shore or the depths at your will ; it is another 
matter to swim for your liberty, if not for 
your life. I had set out from the ship 
thinking that I had a child's task before me ; 
but the half of a mile taught me the lesson, 
and for a little while a despair, almost as of 
death, settled upon me. Seas which had 
been gentle as the touch of flowers upon the 
lips now began to buffet me with stinging 
slaps. I sank lower in the water and came 
up again with difficulty. The sky, grey and 
cold of morning, seemed far above me. I 
could no longer distinguish Dover, for the 
salt stung and burned my eyes ; and all about 
me was the grey, green swell, pitiless, infinite, 
torturing. It was ordained that I must die 
there — die when my voice could be heard in 
England and her white cliffs might almost 
cover me with their shadows. And yet of 
death I thought less than of the tug 
steaming there in my wake, one mile, two it- 
might be, from the place where I lay. How 
far was she behind me now ? How my 
strength seemed to fail me ! I must rest, 
must breathe — they might take me if they 
willed. It would be a relief, I said, to sink 
down, down, and to sleep in the eternal 
silence of the depths. 

Someone halloed across the sea, and I 
thought that I recognised the voice of Harry, 
and that he warned me of the tug's approach. 
Once I heard a siren blasted, and then the 
whistle of an engine, curiously near to me. 
I had been swimming the breast stroke when 
the voice came floating over the waters, but 
now I sank down until my head was but a 
little way above the waves, and so looked 
backward at the ship and the men. Bor- 
denave's boat still lay there, perhaps three- 
quarters of a mile from me, and the tug was 
near by it, apparently hailing it and sending 
out a boat again. 

But that which brought all my courage back 
as upon a beam of light was the spectacle of 
Dover herself, so near to me, so clear in the 
vigour of the day, that I had but to swim a 

hundred strokes to make its harbour, I 
thought. What tide there was appeared to 
help me to the great buttress of the pier. I 
perceived it all so plainly in the pleasing mel- 
low glow of dawn, the lapping waves, the men 
upon the jetty, the white houses beyond, the 
waiting train, with a shimmer of steam above 
the engine's funnel. There was but a little 
river of grey, green water between us ; and so 
gentle a river that it seemed to sport and play 
as a human thing waking to greet the rising 
sun. I said, when I beheld it, that nothing 
could stand now between me and my victory ; 
and, roused at the siren's call as by a clarion 
note, I struck out for the shore again with a 
measure of strength which amazed me. 

Three hundred yards to go, perhaps — three 
hundred yards for liberty and a prize of 
liberty beyond "my words. How my heart 
beat as every stroke carried me a little 
way to that giant pier, where the very stones 
rewarded my exhausted eyes ! None would 
pursue me now, I said, or, pursuing, must 
answer English voices and an English law. 
Odd, indeed, it was that no one observed the 
swimmer from the shore ; but who would 
have looked for him in such a place and at 
such an hour ? Alone I swam ; alone I 
passed through those phases of hope and fear, 
of joy and despair, which such a scene could 
not fail to create for me. None followed, I 
said. Oh, amazing confidence ! for, saying it, 
I heard the steamer's paddles beating the water 
again, and knew that she pursued me. She 
was coming on, then, into the very mouth of 
the harbour ! 

For one unforgotten moment I ceased to 
swim and listened to the echoes. Let those 
who have been in the water remember the 
throb of a steamer's paddle as it smites the 
seas and tumbles them backward in eddies of 
rushing foam. What a sound it is, mysterious 
as the rolling thunder from the depths, a 
ceaseless sound, making the waters tremble 
and the swell ripple even at the foot of the 
distant shores. And now I had the echo of 
it throbbing in my ears ; the waves seemed 
to tremble as at some foreign power ; I could 
feel by instinct that a ship was behind me, 
that it raced up toward me, that I might even 
be drawn down by its swell as in a whirlpool. 
The knowledge was torture — torture beyond 
all power of writing. I had dared so much 
to win so little. It would be a humiliation 
surpassing words to be taken here, when but 
two hundred yards lay between me and my 
liberty ; and yet taken I should be unless a 
miracle saved me. Every moment carried the 
steamer nearer ; every stroke of mine was 



answered bj a louder, more thunderous echo 
of her paddles. She was a hundred, fifty 
yards away, I thought. Those upon her 
deck were hailing me now. Many voices 
at once cried out a warning. I could 
not believe my ears. They were English 

Dazed to the point of unconsciousness, 
worn ont as much by excitement as by 
fatigue, I sank lower in the sea and waited 
for the end. Tlie beat of the steamer's paddles 
had ceased by this time, and in their place I 
could hear the splash of oars and a steady 
word of command. Again, I say, it was an 
English voice that spoke — the mockery of it ! 
— an English voice upon the Calais tug. But 
I had no longer the strength or the will to 
resist the man who hailed me.. He lifted me 
as a child from the sea to his boat ; and as a 

child I lay half senseless while they rowed 
me to the steamer. 

To the steamer, indeed, to a big ship where 
many crowded about me, and strange faces 
peered into mine, and a man with a gold- 
laced cap brought me a glass of brandy, and 
others rolled me in blankets to carry me to 
the cabin below. With wonderstruck eyes I 
looked at the officer and at those who helped 
him. The trim jerseys, the name upon their 
caps, above all (and my hand well may hasten 
to set that down) — above all, the English 
faces. Great God ! I asked, where was I? 
What did it mean ? Whose ship was this ? 

Laugh with me you who read. I had been 
picked up by the morning boat from Calais, 
and before another hour was struck by the 
harbour clock I walked, a free man, in the 
streets of Dover. 


^■■' . 




By F. Klickmann. 

IT is curious to notice how our whole Hfe, from beginning to end, is dominated by 
quotations. As youngsters, we say our simple hymns and nursery jingles till they 
become part and parcel of our very existence. When we get to the school stage, we 
absorb " To be, or not to be," " Excelsior," " Friends, Romans, countrymen," and such-like 
classics (under stern compulsion, doubtless, but that is a very minor side-issue), and these add 
materially to our stock-in-trade. As serious-minded youths, we heavily score our favourite 
authors, and copy out folios of choice extracts — those almost pathetic extracts that turn up 
and confront us in later years, with odd, haunting memories of noble things we meant to 
achieve which still remain undone ! But, finally, out of all the motley collection that we 
have gathered from the wayside and the highways and hedges of life's journey, there are 
usually two or three that appeal to our own individuality more than all the others put 
together ; one may suit us in one mood, one may help us in another ; but, however it may 

be, they represent us ourselves, that 
underlying Ego that we are often 
so careful to disguise from other 

Just as a man's favourite books 
will betray his personal tastes, so 
his favourite quotations will invari- 
ably indicate his attitude towards 
life or his aspirations. One feels 
that literary men and women must 
be the best equipped in the matter 
of quotations. They have dived into 
such deep and wealthy mines of 
book-lore, and one knows they never 
return empty-handed. But, on in- 
terrogating them on the matter, I 
found that by very reason of the wide 
range of their reading it was not 
always easy for them to name one 
extract that stood out prominently 
from among all others. "Ian 
Maclaren " (Dr. Watson) expresses 
this very happily. He says: " I have 
so many favourite quotations that I 
could not mention one without giving 
offence to all the others, and perhaps 
ceasing to be on speaking terms with 

Another celebrated writer has, 
however, unwittingly thrown con- 
siderable light on this subject, 


Reproduced^ by kind permission of the Macmillan Co., from a photo by 
Miss Ben-Tusuf. 




though he little dreamt into what direful complications his revelation might plunge the 
famous author of Young Barbarians I 

Mr. Coulson Kernahan writes : " A favourite quotation isn't like a wife ! — we may have 
more than one. But just as a sailor is said to have a sweetheart in every port, so I must 
confess to a favourite quotation in any number of books. For working purposes, however, 
the following is hard to 
beat — 

" 'Be pitiful, for every man is 
fighting a hard battle.' 

I wish ,1 could say it w^as of 
my own coining, but it is 
from the British WeeJch/, 
where it appeared as my 
friend Ian Maclaren's Christ- 
mas Greeting." 

One can only hope that 
all the other favourite quo- 
tations mil promptly acquit 
Dr. Watson of any personal 
intent to show an undue 
preference on this occasion. 

Miss Marie Corelli writes: 
" I have so many favourites 
— but I send the two which 
represent my own disposition 
most thoroughly — 

" * Call me what instru- 
ment you will, though you 
can 'fret' me, you cannot 
play upon me ! ' — Hamlet. 

*"Then, welcome each re- 
That turns earth's smooth- 
ness rough, 
Each sting that bids nor sit 
nor stand but go ! 
Be our joy three-parts 

pain ! 
Strive, . and hold cheap 
the strain ; 
Learn, nor account the pang ; 
dare, never grudge 
the throe ! ' 

— Robert Browning." 

One is not surprised that 
a writer of the calibre of 

Mr. Guy Boothby should ^,^^^^^^^ IThomas, Chea^slue. 

find his favourite quotation mr. guy boothby in his study. 

in the works of Rudyard 

Kipling. He mentions a verse in HEnvoi at the end of Life's Handicap — 

" ' One instant's toil to Thee denied 
Stands all eternity's offence. 
Of that I did with Thee to guide 
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.'" 

Nor is Mr. Boothby alone in singling out this particular poem. It has likewise been 
named by Mr. William Canton, though one could not find two men whose writings are more 

I have 60 many favourite quotations that I could not men« 
tion one without giving offence to all the others, and perhaps 
ceasing to be onspeaking terms with them, 

Yours faithfully. 


utterly dissimilar than the creator of that fascinating fiend, Br, Nikola, and the author of 
those literary gems, The Invisible Playmate and W, F., her BooJc. Mr. Canton says : " I 
have quoted a stanza from what seems to me to be one of the most beautiful poems that 
Mr. Kipling has published, U Envoi to Life's Handicap — 

" ' Take not that vision from my ken ! 
Oh, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, 
Help me to need no aid from men,- 
That I may help such men as need.'" 

Mr. Robert Barr sends some lines that have before to-day stirred up the courage 
and " grit " in the heart of many a man who was beginning to think he saw nothing but 
" Failure," writ large, before him — 

" ' One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward, 
Never doubted clouds would break, 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 

Sleep to wake.' — Robert Browning." 

But Mr. Barr can never be serious in a letter, whatever he may be in his quotation. He 
has long been celebrated as one of the wittiest letter-writers of the day. However short his 
note may be, it is long enough to afford him an opening for some little touch of the 
humouresque. In the present instance he writes : " The above is my favourite quotation. 
Whenever you want something helpful, you know, look up the writings of the talented 
E. B.'s — Robert Burns, Robert Browning, Robert Buchanan, Robert Bruce, or 

" Robert Barr." 

Miss Beatrice Harraden likewise makes a selection from the greatest of " the talented 
R. B.'s." She writes : "Your question is bewildering, as one has so many favourite lines 






(HUU^'^" ^^ y^^<Uxn^ Ao^ ^ 



tumbling about which cannot be called forth to order ; 
but I am very fond of these words from Browning's Saul — 

" ' The palm Avine shall staunch 

Every wound of man's spirit in winter.' 

" Also this, from The Two GentUmen of Verona— 

" ' The current that with gentle murmur glides 

Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage. 

But when his fair course is not hindered. 

He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones.' " 

One is not surprised that Mr. Clement K. Shorter, 
who has always been a close student of the German 
philosophical writers, should go to the land of great thinkers 
for his favourite quotation in literature. He says : " I 
cannot hesitate to select one which, from my earliest years 
when I began to read German with enthusiasm, has always 

been ringing in my ears — 

" ' Im Ganzen^ Guien, Wah- 
ren refolut zu lehen.'' — In the 
Whole, the Good, the True to 
live resolutely." 

Mr. Eichard Le Gallienre 
sends the spirit, if not the 
letter, of the couplet he most 
admires : " What am I to say ? 
I have so many favourite 
quotations ; but I suppose you 
only allow me one. Well, it 
shall be this serious pronounce- 
ment on life, from Stevenson's 
Child's Garden — 

" ' The world is so full of a 
number of things. 




h.eed . 

That we all ought to 
as happy as kings.' 


I hope I quote correctly, but if not you can call it my 
favourite misquotation." 

Miss Braddon (Mrs. Maxwell) says • " It is difficult to 
choose a few lines out of a series of commonplace books 
in which I could count my favourite quotations by 
hundreds ; but I send these as among random scrapri 
garnered and appreciated-— the first for its music, the 
second for its thought — 
" ' Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; 

His daily teachers had been woods and rills. 
The silence that is in the starry sky. 

The sleep that is among the lonely hills.' 

— Wordsworth. 

" * Let Eagle bid the Tortoise sunward soar. 
As vainly strength speaks to a broken mind.' 

" ' Written on a scrap of paper by Coleridge 
in reply to Thomas Poole on his urging C. to exert 
himself.--1807.' " 

" John Strange Winter " (Mrs. Stan- 
nard) asks : " Why should one have 
favourite quotations ? It would be 



hideouslj inartistic to try to narrow one's supremest appreciation down to this or that line 
when there are thousands that rightly give equal delight. I value Longfellow most among 
poets, and love scores of his beautiful expressions, but I would no more attempt to pick 
out a favourite than I would to select the best brick from a builder's stack. But most of 
us have favourite proverbs or sayings which often enough are quotations. Mine is— 

" ' Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.' " 

Miss Helen Mathers (Mrs. 
Reeves) quotes Kingsley's dear 
familiar verse — 

" Be good, sweet maid, and let 
who will be clever; 
Do noble things, not dreani 
them all day long ; 
And so make Life, Death, 
and that vast * For ever ' 
One grand, sweet song." 

Mr. Max Pemberton quotes 
from the Ruhdiydt of Omar 
Khayyam — 

" Into this Universe, and Why 
not knowing 
Nor Whence, like Water 
willy-nilly flowing ; 
And out of it, as Wind 
along the Waste, 
I know not Whither, willy- 
nilly blowing." 

Mr. g. R. Crockett refers 
us to the greatest of his literary 
fellow-countrymen, though he 
says : " I have no favourite 
quotation in the sense of one 
above all others. But I have 
always felt that Scott's dying 
words to his children put my 
own aspiration — 

" ' For myself, my dears, I 
am unconscious of ever having 
done any man an injury, or 
omitted any fair opportunity of 
doing any man a benefit.' " 

Mrs. Louise Chandler Moul- 
ton writes from her home in 
Boston, Mass., and it is curious 
to notice how her letter vibrates 
with that sense of sadness — the 
sadness that lingers around an 
autumn sunset — which is the 
keynote to so many of her beautiful poems, more especially in her last volume. At the 
Wind's Will : " I heartily wish I could answer your letter by giving you a list of my 
favourite quotations. But such a list would run into hundreds, I am afraid. So many 
centuries are to be counted in which so many beautiful things have been said. When I 
think of death— and death is the one only certainty— I find myself asking, with Hamlet, 
* For in that sleep of death what dreams may come ? ' and then remembering, with Henley, 
that ' Into the dark go one and all.' Then, perhaps, I fortify myself with Stevenson's 
superb Requiem, and try to believe that T, too, shall * gladly die,' and ' lay me down with a 

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[ Vtx.s- (icrfnnle Ilorrmkn. 








will.' But when on this one theme of all — 
conquering death, countless quotations pursue 
each other ; and there are so many themes ! 
Forgive, then, the inadequacy of my reply." 

" Edna Lyall " (Miss Bayly) sends this line — 
*' Be just, and fear not." 

Mayne Lindsay, that brilliant young writer 
whose Indian stories rank second only to those of 
Kipling and Mrs. Steel, says : " I instinctively 
turned to Stevenson to find my favourite quotation, 
but I found it such a vain task to make an 
extract when I could only conscientiously tran- 
scribe him by the volume, that I turned to Matthew 
Arnold. By the w^ay, I suppose they are an oddly 
diverse couple to be bracketed for first place in 

anybody's affections. But still they 
are there, in mine, vice Browning lately 
deposed. But this is not giving you 
the quotation. It is the last lines of 
Rvghy Chapel, that end — 

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7Uf Mc nil 


C i* A» **^; 


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iKilUck <fc Abbot. 

"' . . Follow your 

steps as ye go. 
Ye fill up the gaps 

in our files. 
Strengthen the 

wavering line, 

our march. 
On, to the bound 

of the w^aste. 
On, to the City 

of God ! ' " 

Mr. F. Marion 
Orawford, who 
divides his life 
between bright 
America and still 
brighter Italy, sends 
a quotation in what 
is practically his 
second native lan- 
guage. He writes 
from Italy : " I find 
it very hard to dis- 
cover what my 
favourite quotation 
is. If there is one 
I prefer to another, 
it is, perhaps — 

" * Risurgi e Vinci' 



The words are found in Dante's • P^m&(?, 
towards the end of the XIYth Canto." 

" Maxwell Gray," the author of the famous 
Silence of Dean Maitland, writes : — " It seems 
to me that no one but a fool could have a 
favourite quotation, but I may be mistaken. 
At an age when people are expected to be 
fools, I wrote in grammar and dictionary 
leaves, ' Vinco ant Morior,'' ' Sans Peur et 
sans Reproche.'' Perhaps they were my 
favourite mottoes. Also a poem on ' Dulce 


Photo by} 



Photo hy] \J, Thomson. 


et decorum est pro patiia morl.^ And one 
still extant on the motto of the Royal 
Engineers and Eoyal Artillery Corps — ' UMque 
Quo Fas et Gloria ducunt ' — a suitable motto 
for those who bear it. The only plan I can 
hit upon for discovering the favourite quota- 
tions of literary people is to read their works, 
which appears to be the last use to which 
WTiters are put in the present day. Matthew 
Arnold's favourite quotation seems to have 
been, ' Nella sua volontade e nostra pace,'' 
So perhaps I have one, though I don't 
know it." 

It is a far cry to Indiana, and yet from 
that State there comes a quotation that 
appeals most aptly to the much-rained-upon 
Englishman ! " Edwin Caskoden " (Mr. 
Charles Major), whose delightful romance, 
When Kniffhthood was in Flower, is at the 
present time enjoying one of those phenome- 
nally large sales that America indulges in 
occasionally, bids fair to be as popular an 
author before long on this side of the 
Atlantic as he is through the length and 
breadth of the United States. Mr. Major 
writes : " I send you some verses. Wet Weather 
Talk, by our Indiana poet, James Whitcomb 
Riley, my very dear friend. I send you the 
whole poem, but the first verse is the 



one I specially like, because it breathes a 
sweet philosophy which, if we but live up to 
it, will bring to us all that which we most 
desire —happiness. 

" ' It ain't no use to grumble and 
complain ; 
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice : 
When God sorts out the weather and 
sends rain, 
Wj, rain's my choice. 

" ' Men giner'ly, to all intents — 

Although they're ap' to grumble 
some — 
Puts most their trust in Providence, 
And takes things as they come ; — 
That is, the commonality 
Of men that's lived as long as me, 
Has watched the world enough to 

They're not the boss of the concern. 

jvtj^^tAf ftoiyp wr^ yvvJWv ai\ 

Photo hy] 


[./ y Willie 

" ' With 5{?w^, of course, it's 
different — 
I've seed young men that 
knowed it all, 
And didn't like the way things 
On this terrestrial ball ! 
But, all the same, the rain 

some way 
Eained jest as hard on 

picnic-day ; 
Er when they railly wanted 

It maybe wouldn't rain a 

" ' In this existence, dry and 
Will overtake the best of 
men — 
Some little skift o' clouds'U 
The sun off now and then ; 
But maybe, while you're 

wondern' who 
You've fool-like lent your 

umbreir to. 
And want it — out'll pop the 

And you'll be glad you 
ain't got none t ' " 


Mr. Edmund Gosse is of the opinion that " It must be very difficult for anyone to say 
what is his favourite quotation or motto ; but," he adds, " when I came to this house four 
and twenty years ago I painted on the rafter in my book-room a line from Tibullus — 

" ' Pieridas pueri dodos et amate poetas,' 

and it is there still, I don't know any words which express better my aim in life." 

Madame Sarah Grand writes : " There 
are times when I cannot say what is my 
favourite quotation, for no sooner have I 
chosen one than twenty others I like equally 
well occur to me; so that my favourite 
quotation to-day will most likely not be 
my favourite quotation to-morrow. The 
truth is, I suffer from a succession of 
favourite quotations. They come to me 
spontaneously a propos to something of 
public or private interest which happens to 
be going on at the moment, stay so long as 
they are applicable, and then depart. I 
can, therefore, only giYQ you my favourite 
quotation for the time being. It came to 
me for my comfort while I was suffering 
from the first shock of the cruel and 
cowardly injustice done to Dreyfus, from 
the horror of those atrocious bull-fights at 
Boulogne, and from the chronic pain due 
to a too intimate knowledge of the tortures 
daily inflicted in our midst upon helpless 
animals by the callous vivisector. When I 
thought of these things, and of all the 
strength which seems to be expended in 
vain in efforts to relieve suffering, I should 
have despaired once for all of our vaunted 
humanity, had it not been for my (present) 
favourite quotation, which seems to say that 
progress marches on always imperceptibly 
in spite of all this — 

" ' For while the tired waves dimly breaking 
Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
Far out, by creeks and inlets waking 
Comes silent flooding in the main ! ' " 

Mr. Austin Dobson replied to my query : 
" My quotations vary with the occasion and the necessity. But I have more than once derived 
a melancholy consolation from the — 

" ' Sperate miseri, cavete felices^ 
which Goldsmith puts on the title-page of the Ykar of Wakefield'' 

Photo by} 





prominent people 
who for a whole 
generation have 
been the mouth- 
piece of many of 
the finest thoughts 
of our dramatic 
literature. The 
quotations were 

given to me two or three years ago, but are 
none the less interesting on that account. 
Sir Henry Irving gave as his favourite 


Photo by] [Potter, Indianapolis. 


motto : "Perseverance keeps honour bright" ; 
while Miss Ellen Terry's selection was as 
follows : " In character, in manners, in style, 
in all things, the supreme excellence is 
simplicity.'—LoNGFELLow — and : — 

" Modest doubt is called the beacon of the 




Photo by} 

I Russell cfc Sons. 


.Tc.i'iVew Revp/qs^ 


UPID cannot rival the Devil as a 
I godfather of natural scenery in our 
country. But love and beauty will 
always be found in association, and if we 
follow the footsteps of Cupid we shall see 
some of the loveliest spots of which England 
can boast. 

The little god has shown most favour to 
" Lovers' Leaps," of which half a dozen or 
more are to be found in various picturesque 
districts. Our Lovers' Leaps have their 
classical prototype in Leucadia, one of the 
Ionian Islands now called Santa Maura. 
Sappho is said to have thrown herself into the 
sea from this rocky promontory when her love 
was rejected by Laon. To this episode, 
which occurred about 650 B.C., we may, 
perhaps, attribute the first suggestion of 
English Lovers' Leaps, although not one of 
them can be said at all to resemble the 
site of Sappho's rash act, inasmuch as they 
are all situated some way from the sea. 
Derbyshire can rejoice in two, Devonshire 
has an exceedingly pretty one on the Dart, 
whilst in some respects the most noteworthy 
of all is to be discovered on the shores of 
Lake Ulls water. 

The Lovers' Leap in Sherwood Dell 
is of more modern origin. In a little inn at 
the adjoining village of Stoney Middleton 
which bears the same name you may hear 
the story circumstantially told. In 1760 a 
love-sick maiden of the name of Hannah 
Baddeley, driven desperate by the indiffer- 
ence of her beloved, climbed the loftiest rock 
in the dale and threw herself from it. But 
a tree, which broke her fall, saved her from 
the death she courted. Although crippled, 
she lived to a good old age, a warning 
to the countryside of Cupid's cruelty. 
Miss Baddeley was buried in the village 


churchyard, and there are those who will 
even undertake to point out her grave. 

There is, it is true, a rival version to that 
told at the Lovers' Leap Inn, which refers 
vaguely to some local tradition 'of an exciting 
elopement. The two runaway lovers, riding 
one horse, are said to have successfully taken 
the leap and thus baffled the pursuit of 
an angry father.' This story sounds more 
romantic than the other, and for this reason 
may be preferred by many. But it lacks 


Photo hy Walmsley Bros.,'] 

lovers' leap, aira-forcb. 




the same circumstantial detail and can 
hardly survive an inspection of the actual 
spot, which makes it clear that if the two 
daring lovers did make the leap on horse- 
back, only a miracle could have saved their 
necks. Situated at the entrance of what is 
called the Duke's Drive, about a mile from 
Bnxton, is another Lovers' Leap, a huge rock, 
on a cliif clothed at its sides by ivy and other 
foliage, overlooking a chasm through which 
the Wye stream bubbles and flows. 

Sharplow Point, in the Straits or narrowest 
part of Dovedale, has also been called a 
Lovers' Leap by the inhabitants. To account 
for the name they relate a weird story, in 
which the suicide was a needlessly jealous 
young man ; and several of the precipices 


have legends of accidents - some of them 
fatal —attached to them. 

The Westmorland Lovers' Leap has a 
story to wdiich Wordsworth has given 
enduring form in his poem, " The Som- 
nambulist " — 

List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower 

At eve ; how softly then 
Doth Aira-Force, that torrent hoarse, 

Speak from the woody glen ! 
Fit music for a solemn vale ! 

And holier seems the ground 
I'o him wiio catches on the gale 
The spirit of a mournful tale, 

P>nbodied in the soimd. 

Aira- Force is a waterfall — " force," it should 
be said, is a synonym for this word in the 
Lake District — in Gow^barrow Park, on the 
shores of Ullswater, between Pooley Bridge 

and Patterdale. It has a height of about 
eighty feet, the water proceeding from the 
top over a narrow ledge, dividing at once 
into streams which reunite about half-way 
down. Near the bottom the water dashes 
against a projecting rock, causing a sheet of 
foam and a cloud of spray which in the sun- 
light, glinting through the glen, give the 
scene its prettiest effect. On reaching tbe 
level ground the rushing water becomes a 
transparent stream. 

There once lived at this spot, according 
to the story of the Lovers' Leap which 
W^ordswortli tells, a beautiful maiden, who 
was w^ooed by — ■ 

. . . Barons bald, with stores of gold, 
And knights of high renown. 

She gave her choice 
to Sir Eglamoie, 
but before many 
days of sweet dalli- 
ance had passed the 
knight was called 
away to the wars. 
They exchanged 
vows of fidehty. 
Sir Eglamore wins 
martial glory, but 
after a time the 
lady longs for her 
lover's return. 
Sleeping and waking 
she thinks only of 
him, and in her 
sleep she makes 
nightly pilgrimage 
to the spot in the 
glen where they 
parted. Sir Egla- 
more at length re- 
turns, and in his 
impatience to behold .once more his sweet- 
heart's dwelling-place will not w^ait for the 
morn. In the darkness of the wood he 
beholds the maiden's figure, and for the 
moment wonders whether it is she herself or 
only her spectre — 

He touched— what followed who shall tell? 

The soft touch snapped tbe thread 
Of slumber— shrieking back she fell, 
And the stream w^hirled her down the dell 

Along its foaming bed. 

In plunged the knight! when on firm ground 

The rescued maiden lay, 
Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, 

Confusion passed away; 
She heard, ere to the throne of grace 

Her faithful spirit flew, 
His voice; beheld bis speaking face, 
And, dying, from his own embrace. 

She felt that he was true. 


Fhoto by Blampney <Sc Son,} 



rhoto by Blamjmey tfc Son,] 





Sir Eglamore built himself a cell 
close to the waterfall, and in hermit 
fashion spent the rest of his life 

The visitor to Harrogate finds 
in his tours from that centre two 
Lovers' Leaps. One of these 
forms part of the Great Almias 
Cliff, overlooking the valley of 
the Wharfe. On the brow of 
the cliff are numbers of basins 
hollowed in the stone, and sup- 
posed to have been formed by the 
Druids to catch rain-water for 
sacerdotal purposes ; a larger one, 
of parallelogram shape, is said to 
have been used for bathing children. 
The J are believed to have given 
the name to the cliff, derived by 
those learned in such matters from 
two Celtic words, al, "a cliff," 
and mias, " an altar." One of the 
precipices, known as the Lovers' 

Photo iyy R. TT. Thomas,] 

ICheapside, E.G. 


















' -'^--fc-lil 











■-*^?*fc ?•■' s^ * 

■ty ':■: tXS^il 






*.^^': 'mm 








Fhoto by F. Frith d- Co., Ltd., 2 [Keigate. 


Leap, was, in 1766, the scene of 
the attempted suicide of a lovelorn 
village belle, who, unable to bear 
the slights of her sweetheart, cast 
herself from it. She escaped with 
only a few bruises, a strong wind, 
blowing at the time, having inflated 
her cloak. Learning wisdom, she 
did not again act so foolishly, 
but lived to a ripe old age at a 
village near, known as Kirkby 
Overblow. She must have had 
a considerable amount of grim 
humour in the selection of her 
place of residence — if, indeed, it 
was not so named in memory of her 

The other Lovers' Leap of the 
West Riding is to be found on the 
curious tableland known as Brim- 
ham Rocks. Here, between the 
Boat Rocking Stone and the Druid's 
Cave is an opening in the rocks 
with three huge stones placed arch- 
wise above it. It is on the very 
verge of the precipice, and, perhaps, 
received its title from the idea 
that some lovelorn swain may have 
sought the old but cowardly means 
of escape from the "slings and 
arrows of outrageous fortune " 
which it offers. 

Wales has a Lovers' Leap on the 
banks of the Wye, near Chepstow, 
but local tradition makes but 
vague attempts to explain the 



Photo by W. W. Winter,} 

lovers' leap, the straits, dovedale. 

name. More definite is latter-day knowledge of 
another Welsh " Leap " near to Llandrindod. 
Passing ont of the Rock Park towards 
Ehydllyndu, a footpath runs along 
the top of the field and enters a , . 

wood. At the bottom of a sharp - ;. '" 
dedivity flows the silvery Ithon, 
which sweeps round a projecting 
rock of semicircular form, called the 
Lovers' Leap. Li connection with 
this there is •. legend which may be 
gathered from the following lines by 
a local poet, Mr. Edward Jenkins — 

On lonely, craggy headland, 

'Mid Avoods at twilight hushed, 
A maiden stood dejected, 

Her heart hopes rudely crushed. 
Her dazed look watched the whirlpool, 

When, lo ! a face showed there, 
And from the brink retreating, 
She fell with deadly fear. 
The spell quickly broken — ^dispelled was 

the trance, 
Her eye had the flash of the sword in its 

glance ; 
In madness she pleaded, " Oh ! let me 

away ; 
I'm doomed to be drowned ere the breaking 

of day." 
"No, my darling, hist! and listen," 
Said a voice so sweet and bold ; 
*' For thy pare.its now have cherished 
Hopes that brighten days of old. 
Hie thee home, love's welcome waits thee, 

Sweet the greeting, sweet the song, 

For the troth which holds iis captive 

Melts the sorrow, ends the wrong." 

The maid, when she heard the glad tidings, 

Rushed to his bosom with glee. 
She cried, in a passionate transport, 

" Kind heaven has blessed her decree ; 
The stars far above us are smiling, 

And Nature is mad with delight ; 
The day of our joy is approaching, 

A dawn that will never see night." 

From the Devonshire Lovers' 
Leap is to be enjoyed what is 
generally considered the finest 
view on the Dart. The scene, 
which is near the town of Ash- 
burtoii, is rather similar to that in 
Ashwood Dale, but is of more im- 
pressive dimensions, the wooded 
heights rising much more boldly 
on either side of the narrow valley 
of the Dart. The Lovers' Leap is 
a broken cliff projecting from the 
wood, "hung with ivy and briar 
rose and crested with mountain 
ash." Unhappily no one is now 
able to say how the spot came by 
the name, and local invention has 
not apparently come to the rescue 
of tradition, although the beauty 
of the wdiole neighbourhood is 
such as should inspire romance. 
Devonshire has a second Lovers' Leap, 
but it happens to be called Gallantry Bower, 


lovers' leap, llandrindod. 



a name which recalls to the tourist one of the 
most memorable of the many beauties of 
Clovelly. * It is on a ridge of the cliff, about 
a mile and a half from the quaint little 
village, which rises nearly four hundred 
feet from the sea, with face as straight 
and smooth as a well-planed board. There 
is only a vague tradition of two lovers casting 
themselves into the waves from this pre- 
cipitous height, and pedants have objected 
that the name is probably a corruption of the 
old Kornu-Keltic, Col-cm-veor, meaning a 
"great ridge." But most people, as they 
contemplate from the "Bower" a lovely 
view of sea and coast, will prefer to believe 
that an old-world love tragedy is associated 
with the spot. 

Another Gallantry Bower in Devonshire 
can hardly be described as a Lovers' Leap, 
but, on the other hand, the amorous suggestion 
of its name cannot be explained by any 
mere philological expedient. It is a little 
clump of trees on the edge of the upland, 
near Totnes, which is known as Hembury 
Camp. The upland is covered by thick 
coppice, and below winds the silvery Dart — a 
most agreeable place, in short, for lovers' 
meetings. As mucli can be said of the 

Lovers' Walk at Matlock, although it likewise 
lacks any legendary interest. This is a zigzag 
path, winding about the sloping banks of the 
Derwent, embow^ered for the most part in 
rich foliage. The name of Lovers' Walks 
throughout the country is of course legion, but 
probably none can eclipse that of Matlock. 

The Lovers' Seat, near Hastings, is 
undoubtedly to Londoners the best-known 
of all Cupid's resorts. Few people leave 
the popular pleasure town without visiting 
Faiiiight Glen, and of this excursion the 
Lovers' Seat is usually the most attractive 
feature. A rustic bench upon a ledge of 
rock overlooking the sea at the opening of 
the Glen, the Lovers' Seat is well worthy of 
its name. Secure from surprise, protected 
against the attack of inquisitive eyes, yet 
commanding an expansive view of the sea, 
it may well have been chosen by the 
gallant captain of a revenue cutter as the 
trysting-place for his stolen interviews with 
a Sussex heiress. According to the story, the 
romance ended in a happy marriage, and 
with this wish in their hearts hundreds of 
lads and lasses have since sat together on 
this seat of good omen, and carved their 
names in its stone. 

-^^ .^ 

'^^':']/^f.^^ t% ^^^m 


By Horace Bleackley. 
Illustrated hy A. Wallis Mills. 

EFORE this 
chronicle is 
placed on record 
it must be 
understood that 
Lady Kitty was 
neither a tom- 
boy nor a new 
woman. Most of 
her own sex 
conceded that 
she was a healthy, pretty, and sporting 
English girl. She could swim, ride, and 
fence, and I daresay wrestle or run, with any 
average boy of her own age. 

It fell upon a day in June that her 
noble and gouty father, old Earl Woodthorpe, 
betook himself to an inaccessible health resort 
in the Cambrian mountains, where pure air 
and nauseous waters work miraculous cures. 
Kitty, attended by her faithful Miss Minks, 
was the only one of the family to accompany 
him, for one of her brothers was at Sand- 
hurst struggling with his Finals, and the 
other was at Cambridge working hard for 
his cricket Blue. 

Though they had a charming little bunga- 
low buried amongst the pines, it must be 
confessed that Kitty found the place dull. 
The season had hardly commenced, and few 
people were about, so she had to take her 
excursions upon her pony and bike generally 
alone. Minks being neither of the age nor 
build for such exercises. 

Of course the scenery around was superb 
— it always is in dull places. The mountain 
torrent, after dashing headlong over boulders 
and through deep, cool gorges, splashing be- 
neath "devil's bridges," and skirting shady 
"lovers' walks," suddenly emerged upon a 
grassy, sunlit plain, and became in the fashion 
of its kind a calm and sober matron instead of 
a wanton, frisky child. Here a beautiful 
reach of crystal water made most delightful 
bathing, and here Kitty came for her morn- 
ing swim every day at eleven o'clock. For 
at this hour the place was consecrated to 
the ladies, and the comfortable boathouse 
contained a dressing-room for their use. It 

was a secluded spot, and nowhere in the 
British Isles could Diana have enjoyed more 

Naturally, Minks was always Kitty's bath- 
ing attendant. With camp-stool and no\el 
she would take up her position in some leafy 
retreat overlooking the stream and doze in 
peace, while her charge, after a leisurely 
toilet, would emerge from the boathouse 
like a young Amazon in a delicious creation 
of white and pink, and take a header from 
the highest plank. 

It has been said that the eye of man was 
forbidden to look upon this scene, but a 
week after Kitty's arrival there came a day 
— we blush to record it — when two bold 
creatures played the part of Peeping Tom. 
Their youth must be their excuse, but we 
should be the last to urge it, for they were 
sad young ruffians — no other than little 
Billy Jones and his brother TaflFy, aged 
respectively thirteen and eleven, sons of the 
most notorious poacher in the county. 

" Why does she wear clothes like a lad ? " 
inquired brother Taffy. 

" 'Cos she dunno young chaps like you'd 
come a-looking, I reckon," returned the 
other. " My golly ! she swims like a otter." 

" What's she done wi' her other clothes ? " 

" Hush'te, young booby, the old geezer'll 
hear you. Look at the old gal a-nodding. 
How spiffin' if she toppled off her perch ! " 

Poor Minks, overcome by the lieat, had 
not been aroused by the splash of Kitty's 
dive, and was slumbering thirty yards awav. 

" Hi ! Taf, I've got it ! " added Billy 
in a hoarse whisper into his brother's ear, 
gripping his arm with excitement. " You've 
got your sack all right, eh ? " 

" Aye, it's here," said Taf. " Wot's your 
game ? " 

" Sneak the young wench's clotlies ! " 
whispered Billy. " It'll be as easy as winking. 
I'll stow 'em in t'sack in a jiffy. Mammy '11 
be fair crazy. Gals like yon have clothes 
worth a pot o' brass. It'll keep us all fine 
till dad comes out agin." 

Three minutes later the wicked pair were 
slinking through the undergrowth like foxes, 
dragging a well -filled sack between them. 




Minks's slumbers were long and deep this 
morning. When she did awake it was with 
a start. 

" Minks," came a clear, strong jonng voice 
from the boathouse. " Minks — I've been 
calling you for I don't know how long." 

" Eh, my dear ? — yes," answered the be- 
wildered old lady, wrestling still with sleep. 
" I heard you, dear. I think I must have 
been wrapped up in my book." 

" Minks, it's an extraordinary thing, but 
I can't find my clothes anywhere." 

" Clothes, dear, clothes ? " cried the buxom 
Minks, as she toddled towards the boathouse. 
" But have you looked for them ? " 

" Looked for them ! " echoed Kitty with 
scorn, her face only visible through the open 
door — a beautiful face, tanned by the sun, 
with strong, clearly cut features and bold, 
fearless grey eyes. " Of course I've looked 
everywhere. I want to know where you've 
moved them to." 

" Moved them ? I've never moved from 
my chair." 

" Nonsense. Clothes can't disappear like 
that. You must have done. Come in and 
have a good look." 

They searched the place thoroughly for a 
quarter of an hour, with the inevitable result. 

"Well, of all the " began Minks 


" Nonsense, Minks," snapped Lady Kitty, 
with pardonable petulance. " I was in the 
water and you were asleep. Someone must 
have stolen or hidden them." 

" I must hurry home and send Jane back 
with some more. Now, dear Lady Kitty, 
promise me to lock the door and stop inside 
till Jane comes. I shall be in a fit all the 

"I'll have to put on those flannels we saw 
in the men's dressing-room," remarked Kitty, 
" or I shall catch my death of cold." 

Minks could not repress a little scream of 
horror ; but consideration for Lady Kitty 
overcame prudery, and she replied — 

"Of course, dear. I'll fetch them for 

The flannels included a sweater and a dark 
blue blazer trimmed with gold braid. They 
appe'ared brand new, and must from their 
size have belonged to a schoolboy. 

" Why, the thieves have actually over- 
looked my stockings ! " said Kitty, with a 
cry of delight as she espied the articles in 
a corner. 

It would be impossible to imagine a 
prettier boy than Lady Kitty when she had 
assumed her novel costume. Her close, curly 

hair — the result of an attack of scarlet fever 
during the previous autumn — suited her now 
to perfection. She truly looked a jolly little 
chap of fifteen. 

" I've a good mind to run home through 
the wood just as I am," she cried with 
girlish glee. " No one would see me." 

" I won't hear of it. Lady Kitty," returned 
Minks severely. "You must wait till 
Jane " 

" Yes, I dare say, Minky. I know how it 
will be. You always take half an hour, at 
least, to get home, and that lazy, slow girl 
will be another half hour in coming here. 
That's an hour. And of course I shall have 
to dress again at home. What time do you 
think it will be when we get to the cricket- 
ground ? And the dog-cart's ordered at 
twelve. I did so want to be in time for the 

If Minks had not been so horrified, it is a 
question whether Kitty would have been so 
hare-brained. And, after all, she was pro- 
posing nothing very dreadful, for they rarely 
met anyone between the bathing-place and 
their home, and the path lay through the 
wood the whole way. 

" This cricket-cap might have been made 
for me," said Kitty, as she stuck it on the 
back of her head. " Ta-ta, Minks ! make 
haste after me." 

" No, no, listen " 

But Lady Kitty had disappeared. 

" To think that she'll be eighteen next 
w^eek ! " murmured Minks. 

Delighted at her naughty prank, and 
perhaps, too, a little scared, Kitty flew 
through the cool, silent wood like a young 
fawn, crashing through the undergrowth 
and scattering the rabbits helter-skelter as 
she ran. By avoiding the beaten track, and 
striking in a bee-line for home, she hoped to 
save time and avoid all risk of being seen. 
Never for one moment did she think that 
there would be any difficulty in finding the 
way. Not until she was quite out of breath 
— after a ten minutes' spurt — did she slacken 
speed. The tall bracken rose up to her 
shoulders, and huge trunks and clusters of 
leafy saplings prevented her from seeing 
more than twenty yards ahead. The British 
jungle is a very safe and charming place, 
but when it is large and you do not know it 
well it is very easy to get lost. So the 
luckless Kitty found, for at the end of half 
an hour she had no idea of where she was or 
whither she ought to go. It w^as an ex- 
asperating position, and Kitty grew both 
tired and angry. Presently, as the wood 



' A couple of sturdy youths came towards her. 

began to slope rather abruptly downhill, a 
break in the trees showed her a patch of 
meadow-land beneath her. Anxious above 
all things to escape from her present sur- 
roundings, she began to quicken her pace, 
and, careless of the risk of slip or tumble, 
she scampered eagerly down the hill. 

It was the most unfortunate thing that 
could have happened, but the trees ter- 
minated abruptly, and as she burst through 
the tangled bracken she suddenly found 
herself on the borders of an open field. One 
glance showed her what it was. The smooth, 
mossy turf and the little rustic pavilion told 
that it was a cricket-ground ! And, worse 
still, the cricketers were there, too, and 
one little group a few yards away at once 
caught sight of her. A couple of sturdy 
youths came towards her, and one, brown 

as a berry and 
handsome enough 
to turn any girl's 
head, gave her a 
hearty slap on the 
shoulder, as he 
exclaimed — 

" Glad to see 
you, young 'un. 
Off with your coat 
— you're just in 
time. We've got 
to field." 

Before poor 
Kitty realised 
what had hap- 
pened, he had 
taken her arm and 
was leading her 
towards the 

The chief per- 
sonages in this 
part of Wales were 
young Sir Thomas 
Llewel lyn, 
Baronet, and old 
Sir Lucas Blundle, 
the millionaire 
shipping man from 
Liverpool. There 
was one thing in 
common between 
them — a passion- 
ate devotion to 
the gam e of 
cricket. Sir Tom, 
as he was known 
locally, had been 
captain of his 
'Varsity, and now played for Middlesex. 
Old Blundle ran the village cricket- team 
at a cost of a thousand a year, at least, and 
watched over it like a father. The old 
gentleman's talent for arranging interesting 
matches was unique, and his challenge to 
play any eleven of 'Varsity men that Sir Tom 
could bring against him was his latest achieve- 
ment. Tom had taken up the gauntlet and 
after some difficulty the day had been fixed. 
Middlesex had a vacant date, so three of 
Tom's colleagues were available, and as 
Yorkshire, too, were not playing, three other 
famous amateurs had promised to take part. 
W^ith seven such talented players Tom could 
afford to give the vacant places in his team 
to ordinary college eleven men. It must not 
be imagined that the young baronet was 
bringing down overwhelming strength, for 



old Sir Lucas had his two sons, both in the 
Cambridge eleven, and a couple of pro- 
fessional bowlers, retained at luige salaries, 
of whom any county would have been 
proud, while the rest of his side were sound 
average youngsters who could bat, bowl and 
field, and as game as prizefighters. 

Having a good-sized country house, Tom 
was able to entertain his own team without 
assistance, and the night before the match 
ten of them sat down to a convivial bachelor 
dinner. They had reached the coffee-and- 
cigar stage when a telegram arrived for the 

" From that erratic beggar, Sparks," he 
explained, as he glanced over it. "Some- 
thing up — can't come, of course." 

" What rot ! " cried the Yorkshire crack, 
keen as mustard always. "I suppose you 
can find someone else ? Must be a 'Varsity 
man, of course, as you agreed with old 

"Well, it's deuced late," answered Tom, 
reflecting. "The only chap about here is 
Haworth, the parson's boy, who's at Oriel. 
He's down at present, but I don't know him." 

" Well, can't we ask him ? " inquired the 
enterprising Yorkshireman. " I'll stroll over 
with you to his place, if it's not far." 

It happened that the Yicarage was not 
more than half a mile away, so, after seeing 
the other men settle down to a game of pool, 
Tom and his friend went forth on their 
errand. It was dark when they arrived at 
the clergyman's house, and they found his 
son enjoying a cigarette in the garden. 

" I'm afraid I don't play cricket much," 
he answered nervously, when the visitors had 
explained matters. " You see, I'm a boating 
man. I'm rather keen on coxing our togger 
next year !" 

" Oh ! but you must play for us," said the 
gentleman from Shefiield. "It's for the 
credit of the 'Varsity, you know, and old 
Blundlell give us a ripping lunch." 

Thus adjured, the young freshman con- 

The next morning was favoured with per- 
fect summer cricket weather. As it was 
only possible to play a one day's match, it 
had been arranged to start at 11.30 and 
draw stumps at 7. Tom lost the toss, 
and was just about to lead his men into the 
field without the " boating man," who had 
not turned up, when the man from Sheffield 
cried out — 

" There he is ; that's the Oriel blazer, I 
swear." For at that moment Kitty had 
suddenly appeared on the scene. 

" Shouldn't know the beggar again," said 
Tom. "Yes, of course, that's him. He's 
taken a short cut through the wood." And 
thus they came to accost the Lady Kitty. 

Then, while Kitty, helpless through fright 
and astonishment, was being led fraternally 
by good-natured Tom to the pavilion, Fate 
willed it that his groom should thrust a note 
into his hands. 

" Dear Sir Thomas," he read out aloud, 
"an extraordinary thing has happened. 
My flannels have been mislaid. I will 
explain when I see you, but I can't come 
without them, so I cannot be on the field 
until half- past one. I shall be there then 
without fail, and hope I shall be in time. 
" Yours truly, S. Haworth." 

" Hullo, wdiy, you must have sent this 
to me ? " he cried, looking down at the 
bewildered Kitty. " Funny ! I suppose 
you found your flannels afterwards ? " 

" Oh, it's a mistake," gasped Kitty 

" Of course it is ; you seem to have got 
'em on all right now," laughed the Yorkshire- 

Kitty could grasp e. situation as quickly 
as most girls, and, bewildered though she 
was, she realised two things. First, of 
course, that she was taken for somebody 
else, and secondly, that this somebody else 
would not turn up till half -past one. The 
daughter of a dozen earls — sad rascals, many 
of them ! — she had no lack of pluck and 
presence of mind, with a fair share of the 
devil-may-care leaven also. Most other girls 
would have fled from the scene in terror, 
and the story of her escapade would have 
been in everybody's mouth the next day. 

"Now, young man, buck up. The um- 
pires are out," called Tom to her, as he 
led forth his men. 

She had always acted upon the principle 
that one might as well be hanged for a horse 
as a sheep. Escape without detection was 
impossible at present, it might be possible 
later on. Kitty took the risk and followed 
Tom on to the cricket-field. 

Blundle's team played well, and, though 
none of them made a big score, each man got 
plenty of runs. The total mounted steadily, 
and the luncheon-hour approached. Kitty, 
of course, had been very nervous all the time, 
and the fact that she missed two or three 
catches, and found out that the Yorkshire- 
man could swear, had not made her more 
comfortable. She was standing at mid-on, 
longing for the time when she could slip 



away unobserved, when she suddenly became 
conscious that the ball was coming very hard 
and straight in her direction. Instinctively 
she put out her hands, and there it stuck like 
a glowing red-hot coal. It was the little 
stone-waller, who had gone in first wicket 
down, whom she had caught out, and her 
colleagues were loud in their applause. 
The next moment she had forgotten her 
smarting fingers as the luncheon-bell rang. 

"Lovely catch! "cried the Sheffield gentle- 
man, with the generous criticism of a bowler. 
" I thought I should get the little beggar to 
land out before long," 

And he accompanied Kitty towards the 

" She found herself face to face with a nervous, pale-faced, spectacled youth 

pavilion with his hand upon her shoulder, 
and expatiated at length upon the art of 
changing one's pace without changing one's 
action. When she had got rid of him, Tom 
came up with a few words of congratulation, 
and then the hospitable Sir Lucas, who was 
bustling about with a hot and flaming 
countenance, took possession of her and 
insisted upon escorting her and two other 
cricketers to the luncheon-marquee. There 
was no chance of escape, and she found her- 
self sitting next to Tom at the long table. 
Tom began to make the talk with questions 
about Oriel. Being hopelessly ignorant, she 
had to turn the topic at once, so they got 
upon the subject 
of hunting, about 
which she knew 
as much as he, 
and which lasted 
till the end of 

Tom was so inter- 
ested in his new 
acquaintance that 
he did not leave 
her until it was 
time to begin 
again, so once 
more poor Kitty 
found licrself in 
the field. When 
Blundle's men 
were finally dis- 
posed of, they had 
made 200 runs 
and it was nearly 
four o'clock. 

Kitty put on 
her jacket and 
hoped at length to 
get an opportunity 
of stealing away. 
Presently she 
found herself face 
to face with a 
nervous, pale- 
faced, spectacled 
youth of about 
her own height. 
His eyes grew wide 
with astonishment 
as he looked at her, 
his mouth opened 
as if to speak, then 
shut with a click, 
and he slunk away 



Instinct whispered that this was the owner 
of the flannels, and she longed for the earth 
to open and swallow her. Turning awaj 
abruptly she ran into the arms of the York- 
shireman, who took such a great fancy to 
her that she could not shake him off. 

Tom's side forced the pace so well that by 
six o'clock they only required twenty-one 
runs to win. Then three wickets fell with- 
out any addition to the score, and only Kitty 
remained to bat. Tom himself, who was 
playing finely, was the not-out batsman. 

It is probable that no cricketer or cricket- 
ress ever walked to the wickets in such a 
hopeless state of nervousness as did poor 
Kitty. She had positively refused to wear 
pads, but a bat had been thrust into her 
hand, and after a string of suitable admoni- 
tions from the Yorkshireman she had been 
pushed into the arena. Tom strolled to 
meet her. 

"I say, do keep your end up, old 
chap," said he earnestly. " I shall never 
hear the last of it from old Blundle if he 
licks us." 

Alas for the strength of youthful woman's 
will when there is a man in the case ! Kitty, 
w^ho had come out with the fixed determina- 
tion of being bowled by the first straight 
ball, now actually resolved to do her best 
It must be remembered that she had been 
brought up with a couple of brothers, who 
had always very properly treated her as an 
equal and a pal, and whose cricket she had 
shared • ever since she could walk. Even 
when the boys were at school, and the 
famous "Notts pro." came to coach them 
at Woodthorpe Castle during the holidays, 
they had insisted upon Kitty taking her 
turn at the nets. So she " took guard " 
for leg and middle, and stood up to the 
wicket like a man. 

The bowler was a short, thick-set, red- 
headed youth, and his first ball seemed to 
come to her like a shot from a cannon. Her 
eyes closed involuntarily, she set her teeth 
and listened for " the rattle in the timber- 
yard." Then came a crash against her bat, 
an approving cry of " Well played " from 
Tom, and when she looked up the bowler 
was in the act of stopping the ball as it 
returned to him. The next one, though 
fast and straight, was an easy length. She 
did not shut her eyes this time, but met it 
with a firm, straight bat. The magic of the 
game had now conquered her, and though 
still very frightened she felt happy. The 
third ball and last of the over was to leg — 
if ever a girl has a stroke this is the one ! 

Kitty managed to turn in time to touch it 
and it glided away to the boundary. 

Then Tom pUyed a great game for his 
side, and kept the bowling to himself, very 
cleverly scoring a single most appropriately 
at the end of each over, and frequently 
knocking a two or a four at other times. 
So when Kitty's turn came to bat once more 
three runs only were required to win the 
match. She had to face the red-headed 
bowler again. He had a nasty low action, 
and a kuack of coming back quickly from 
the wicket — a sort of " bowl-you-off-your- 
pads " trick. Poor Kitty had no pads, and 
she had been taught never to move her' 
right foot unless to cut, so it is not to be 
wondered that she received a nasty blow on 
her knee. The fielders were sympathetic, as 
they usually are, but as they came up with 
kind words, or with offers to rub the wounded 
limb, they were waved away, Kitty bit her 
lip and, sick with pain, stood up to the 
bowling once more. She had grown weak 
and her head was whirling. As she played 
she felt the bat twist round in her fingers 
when it met the ball, but a second later 
there was a shout, for the ball had flown 
through the slips straight to the pavilion 
rails. It was a four, and the match was 
won ! 

With a delighted grin upon his face Tom 
marched down the wicket to where Kitty- 
stood, and stretched forth his gloved hand 
for a shake of congratulation. At the sam^ 
moment she reeled, and as she fell forwara 
in a dead faint he was just in time to catch 
her in his arms. The old local doctor, bald- 
headed and benevolent, came forward as 
Tom bore his burden to the pavilion, and 
accompanied him into the visitors' dressing- 
room. The room was deserted, for Tom's 
team had come to the ground in their 
flannels, but a few moments later, as three 
or four came to make kindly inquiries, their 
entrance was barred by Tom, his face red 
and flustered. 

"The doctor says you're not to come in," 
he said hurriedly. " The poor fellow will 
soon be right, but he must have air." 

And when the man from Sheflield per- 
sisted in trying to come in, and Tom told 
him to go to the deuce, there was likely to 
be a row. But at that moment a diversion 
occurred^ for a stout, hysterical lady charged 
down upon Tom, carried the door at the 
point of her umbrella, and slamming it 
behind her bolted every man Jack of them out. 

" It's his mother, I think," exclaimed 
Tom, when he had recovered from his 



surprise. " Now, you cliaps, the drag is at 
the gate, and my man has all the bags. 
You'd better make a start, for we've got to 
dine at Bhmdle's at eight sharp." 

Half an hour later, when Kitty, supported 
on one side by the doctor, and on the other 
by the gallant Minks with open umbrella, 
managed to limp to the doctor's trap, which 
had been specially ordered, the cricket- 
ground was deserted. Tom only, shy and 
abashed, stood at a respectful distance and 
watched her drive away. Then, just as he 
was getting into his own dog-cart, a small, 
nervous youth ran up out of breath. 

" Sir Thomas, it's such a funny thing 
about my flannels," he gasped. "I can't 
imagine — I say, would you mind asking the 
little man in the Oriel blazer ? " 

Tom did not deign to answer, but his 
looks were murderous, and the Httle fresh- 
man fled in terror. 

One afternoon, ten days later. Lady Kitty 
was lying on the sofa in the little drawing- 
room of the bungalow^ for her knee still 
required rest. She wore a delicious light 
blue tea-gown, and a tiny shoe and a blue 
silk ankle occasionally peeped forth from its 

" Minks, dear," she said persuasively, " do 
you know, I think I could manage a short 
nap," and after a hasty glance at the clock 
she looked through the open French windows 
down the drive. Minks took the hint and 
departed. Five minutes later a dog-cart 
drove up to the front door, and the footman, 
who had heard nothing about the siesta, at 
once ushered the visitor into the drawing- 
room. It was Tom, who had never failed to 
put in an appearance to inquire after the 
invalid every day since the eventful match, 
and, strange to relate, he found Kitty looking 

very sprightly and wide awake. They were 
now great friends. 

" I saw little Haworth to-day," he com- 
menced after a preliminary greeting. " He 
found his flannels in the cupboard in the 
boathouse, and he thinks some of the village 
boys must have played him a trick." 

" Oh ! I'm so afraid he will suspect " 

began Kitty, blushing. 

"No chance of that. He is horribly 
ashamed of himself for not turning up. I 
gave him a good wigging, and said that 
unless a 'Varsity pal of mine — that's you — 
had come down unexpectedly we should have 
lost the match. So, you see, Miss Minks, 
the dear old doctor, and myself are the only 
people who can possibly know about '' 

" Oh ! please don't remind me " 

" I'm sorry ; I won't mention it again if 
you don't like it," answered Tom humbly. 

Then, after a moment's pause, he added 
nervously — 

" But you may have to tell about it some 

" I never shall," cried Kitty. " Papa 
would " 

" I don't mean Mm, But when you get 
married ! " 

Kitty was blushing furiously. 

" After all," said Tom, speaking slowdy, as 
if feeling for the words, and blushing also, 
" it seems a pity that anyone else should get 
to know ! " 

And as Kitty glanced up their eyes met. 

The fresh air and mineral waters of the 
Cambrian mountains must have benefited 
old Lord Woodthorpe, for a few months later 
he was able to march up the aisle at St. 
George's, Hanover Square, as sprightly and 
dapper as any of them, to give his daughter 
away to Sir Thomas Llewellyn. 



Fkom the Picture by Percy Tarrant. 

I'huio by Pebenhani ik Co., York. 

FROM time immemorial the problem 
of aerial navigation has exercised an 
immense fascination over mankind 
in general. Many have devoted their 
whole lives and expended vast fortunes in 
the vain hope of being able to reduce it 
to a formnlated science. Yet, despite the 
centuries of toilsome research and disappoint- 
ing experiments, the atmosphere still refuses 
to be governed in its movements by man, 
and all endeavours to travel contrary to the 
inclinations of the wind have resulted in 
inevitable disaster. But man is, after all, a 
most dogged and persevering animal. Con- 
stant, hopeless failures only serve to stimulate 
him to further efforts. Although no aerial 
vessel has yet been devised that will place 
the wind at defiance, and thus establish 
another highway for travel, one has been 
constructed that will at any rate float in the 
aerial ocean, and will follow in the course 
of the wind with every assurance of safety. 

It was not until late in the eighteenth 
century — 1783 — that such a vessel was first 
launched. Two brothers named Montgolfier, 
paper manufacturers at Annonay, in France, 
constructed a large paper bag, and inflated it 
with hot air and smoke from a fire of straw. 
Directly the bag was released it flew^ skywards 
and remained poised in the atmosphere until 
the air with which it had been inflated cooled 
and condensed to such an extent that it was 
no lighter than the air in wliich it floated ^ 



By FiiEDERiCK A. Talbot. 

when, fulfilling the laws of gravitation, it of 
course dropped to the earth. It was only a 
primitive experiment, but it sent a thrill of 
excite m.ent through the whole of the civilised 
world, and aerial navigation was now con- 
sidered un fait accompli. But more was to 
follow. Seventeen years previous to the Mont- 
golfiers' triumphant success Henry Cavendish 
discovered that hydrogen gas is 14*46 times 
lighter than the air we breathe. Professor 
Black, of Edinburgh, developed this revela- 
tion by filling a bag with hydrogen, and 
enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing the inflated 
receptacle rise to the ceiling of his room. 
Other experimenters subjected Cavendish's 




Photo by Russell & Sons, Baker Street, W. 




disco very to 
a far more 
exaotin*:: test. 
The })rothei's 
Ko])erfc and 
M. (Miarles 
balloon of 
sufficient size 
to carry two 
filled it with 
ascended at 
Paris, travel- 
led thirty 
miles through 
the air, and 
scended without any 
injury befalling 

Although more 
than a century lias 
passed since these 
pioneers reduced the 
theory of aei'ial 
travelling to a ]K)s- 
sibility, the balloon 
of to-day differs l)ut 
little from that in 
which they con- 
ducted their experi- 
ments. Naturally 
the rapid strides of 
science have ]-e- 
sulted in a perfect- 
ing of the various 

appliances used ; 
l)ut, apart from 
this, the balloon of 
to-day, like that of 
1788, is simply an 
abject slave of the 

The only im- 
portant discovery 
of the nineteenth 
century in connec- 
tion with aerosta- 
tion was that of 
Mr. Charles Green, 
who found that the 
ordinary domestic 
coal gas, though 
twice the density 
of hydrogen gas, 
was sutlici- 
ently satis- 
factory for 
all ])i'acti('al 
purposes. It 
was a valu- 
b 1 e d i s- 
c o \ e r y , 
because coal 
gas is much 
more con- 
venient and 
than hydro- 

the study of 
is i n d u - 

Photos byl 

[Negretti <fe Zanibra. 



hitably attractive, the iminl)or of acroiiantical 
experts tliroiigliout the world may almost l)e 
counted upon the fingers of the hands. 
Perhaps the most eminent of these are the 
three brothers Spencer— Percival, iVrthur, 
and Stanley. Their ascents in all parts of 
the world, from China to Pern, may be 
counted by thousands, and at times their 
experiences have been 
decidedly exciting. Yet, 
despite hairbreadth escapes, * 
Mr. Percival Spencer has . -. 

assured me that he never - --^ 

feels so safe as when travel- . /, . . • 

hng through the air in a . . ' 


Percival Spencer, who is . ' 

the eldest of the three ' ;. ^^ ,. 

brothers, may yet be counted .\ 

a young man. He is most . ; V' '; 

enthusiastic over his * i 

favourite pastime, and is .; , 

never weary of discoursing * ' - 

upon aeronautics. As to the . '; - 

atmosphere, there is little he ',': * 
does not know about its ^ -^ . .,. 
peculiarities, movements, ' \ *^ - 
and variations. When ques- ... . ' ■ 
tioned as to what induced 
him to devote his energies 
to this unusual profession, 
he laughingly replied — 

" Well, I suppose it is 
what many people would 
term ' hereditary instinct.' 
You see, my father was an 
aerona^ut, and my grand- 
father before liim. The 
latter, in the year 1837, ac- 
companied the veteran bal- 
loonist Mr. Charles Green 
on many trips through the 
air. I w^as consequently 
initiated into the mysteries 
of aerostation very early in 
my life, and, from my own 
experiences in the air, 1 
think it would be difficult to 
discover a more entertaining 
field for scientific research. 

"No>" he continued in 
answer to my query ; " I have never met with 
an accident. Of course, one cannot make over 
a thousand ascents into the air without passing 
through a few exciting experiences. I re- 
member on one occasion I was requested by 
the Dutch Government to conduct surveys 
from aloft, for military purposes, of the 
province of Atcheen, in Sumatra. The 

hostile natives, either terrorised l)y sucli 
an apparently supernatural object floating 
through the air, or fully cognisant of our 
intentions, opened a warm fusillade upon 
us, and to save the balloon from being 
riddled we had to ascend to a height that 
placed us beyond tlie reach of the natives' 


For the purpose of scientific research in 
tlie atmosphere the balloon has rendered in- 
A aluable service, and it is difficult to conceive 
how our savants would have gleaned so much 
information concerning the ether had it not 
been for the inventive genius of the brothers 
Montgolfier. Several high ascents have 
been made for this purpose. 



Ill 1862, Messrs. Coxwell and Glaislier. 
under the presidency of the British Associa- 
tion, ascended to the tremendous height of 
29,000 feet at Wolverhampton. These two 
aeronauts also claim to have attained an 
altitude of 37,000 feet — about seven miles — 
but this statement seems open to question. 
Even to-day many scientists contend that 
the aeronauts must have made an error in 
their calculations. From the reports of the 
aeronauts themselves, it was evidently an 
adventurous and memorable ascent. At 
29,000 feet Mr. Qlaisher was rendered in- 
sensible, and when the maximum height 
was attained Mr. Coxwell lost the use of his 
hands, and was compelled to pull the valve- 
line with his teeth in order to descend. 

At the Crystal Palace, recently, Dr. Berson, 

the quantity. For instance, it requires 1,000 
cubic feet of coal gas to lift about thirty-five 
pounds, but exactly the same measurement 
of hydrogen will suffice to raise seventy 

" When we made our aerial trip we in- 
flated our balloon, which was of 56,500 cubic 
feet capacity, with only 30,000 cubic feet of 
hydrogen. Then as the balloon rose and the 
gas naturally expanded, there was still avail- 
able 26,500 cubic feet of space inside the 
silken bag to be filled before any hydrogen 
overflowed through the nozzle of the balloon." 

Some idea of the costly nature of inflating 
a balloon with hydrogen may be gathered 
from the fact that Dr. Berson's ascent cost 
over £160. Special elaborate apparati for 
generating the necessary gas had to be con- 


a famous meteorological scientist of the Berlin 
Observatory, who has projected several scien- 
tific observations from the balloon, made an 
ascent with Mr. Stanley Spencer. They 
reached a height of 27,500 feet — that is, over 
fiYQ miles high. This is the greatest height 
that has ever been registered in this country 
since the ascent of Messrs. Coxwell and 
Glaislier. Dr. Berson, however, has reached a 
greater altitude than this, for on one occasion, 
in Berlin, the balloon rose to 30,000 feet. 

" Our ascent," said Mr. Stanley Spencer, 
*• was accomplished under the most favour- 
able conditions. In this case our balloon 
was inflated with hydrogen. Of course, this 
medium is very expensive in comparison with 
coal gas ; but then it is only about half the 
density, and, therefore, you need only half 

veyed to the grounds from which the ascent 
was made. The hydrogen is generated by the 
decomposition of sulphuric acid by means of 
iron. Six tons of sulphuric acid and four tons 
of iron shavings were consumed on this occa- 
sion to manufacture the necessary quantity 
of hydrogen. The modus operandi is as 
follows : The acid is placed in a tank with a 
quantity of iron and water. The chemical 
action at once proceeds with great rapidity, 
and the hydrogen passes off into another 
chamber in a very heated and impure state, 
where it is purified by passing through fresh 
cold water and afterwards dried by being, 
passed through a vat filled with unslaked 
lime, after which it is conveyed through the 
hose-pipe into the balloon. 

" It was two o'clock when we left the 



Crystal Palace," said Mr. Spencer, in reply 
to my request for a description of his voyage. 
" Owing to tlie delicate nature of Dr. Berson's 
meteorological instruments, they were slung 
from the network of the balloon, so that the 
heat radiated from our bodies might not 
affect their careful adjustment and correct- 
ness. We rose very rapidly and travelled in 
an easterly direction. This was not quite 
what we desired, as the wind was carrying us 
towards the sea, and although we were fully 
equipped with lifebuoys in case of an emer- 
gency, we did not anticipate an immersion 
in the North Sea with any degree of pleasure. 
Fortunately, at 10,000 feet we ascended into 
another current of air travelling south-west. 
This quite coincided with our expectations, 
and Br. Berson at once commenced his 

''At 20,000 feet high the hydrogen had 
expanded to the utmost capacity of the 
balloon, and ballast was discharged to con- 
tinue the upward momentum. The air was 
extraordinarily clear, and at 23,000 feet we 
could discern the coast of France^ a large 
expanse of the English Channel covered with 
diminutive dots, which were in reality the 





numerous vessels passing up and down, and 
the whole stretch of the east coast from 
Dover to the Wash. Still we continued to 
ascend, but the air became intensely cold, 
though we were protected with heavy woollen 

" We looked at our barometer. It regis- 
tered 25,000 feet — a vertical distance of 
nearly five miles. At this point a giddy 
sensation overcame me, and I found it diffi- 
cult to breathe in the rarefied atmosphere. 
Dr. Berson, who was busily immersed in 
his meteorological surveys, gurgled as he 
breathed. 'Oxygen,' he gasped, and I at once 
handed him the mouthpiece connected with 
the cylinder of compressed oxygen which we 
carried so as to retain our vitality in the 
rarefied air, while I utilised the other my- 
self. As we inhaled the pure oxygen gas the 
giddiness was dispelled, but whenever I re- 
moved the tube from my mouth the same 
indescribable sensation of asphyxiation over- 
came me. The barometer registered 27,500 
feet — more than five miles high, and only 
1,500 feet short of the previous English 
record — before the balloon gained her equi- 
librium. I may mention in • passing that 
at this enormous b eight the atmosphere 
is only about one-third the density it is on 




Observe the second hallmv, ttenrhf full, the three rmmdahouts, hand-stand, 
shmv-tents, ami ilo' midgei-Wce spectatm's all over the field. 

the surface of tlie earth, the barometer stand- 
ing at ten inches, whereas it rises to thirty 
inches on the ground. 
" We had only 
four bags of ballast 
remaining in the 
car, and, as these 
were necessary to 
ensure a safe des- 
cent, I pulled tlie 
valve-line and we 
rapidly fell through 
the air — in fact, we 
descended at such a 
tremendous rate that 
I had to cast over- 
board all our ballast 
in order to reduce 
our speed. We 
landed safely, how- 
ever, at Romford, 
sixteen miles from 
the Crystal Palace, 
after having re- 
mained in the air 
for about ninety 
minutes. Curiously 
enough, when we 
disembarked, there 
was not sufficient 
gas in tlie bahoon to 
keep it up." 

a still 

" Do you consider, from your 
success on this particular occasion, 
that a greater altitude might be 
safely attained in a balloon ? " 

*' Certainly ; I have not the least 
doubt that had we been provided 
with a larger balloon we might have 
exceeded Coxwell and Glaisher's 
record of 29,000 feet. The ascent 
proved valuable in many" ways. In 
the first place, from our experiences 
it was clearly demonstrated that the 
claim formulated by those gentlemen 
of having attained an altitude of 
87,000 feet is quite untenable. They 
were not provided with compressed 
oxygen to facilitate breathing. Now, 
there is no doubt that had we not been 
equipped with oxygen, we should have 
been rendered unconscious at 27,500 
feet ; and if at this height such an 
event occurred, what would happen at 
87,000 feet ? The balloon in which 
Coxwell and Glaisher attained their 
29,000 feet was of 80,000 cubic 
feet capacity, but then it was only 
inflated with ordinary coal gas. 
'% balloon of 100,000 feet, I think 
greater altitude miglit be safely 




reached, provided, of course, oxygen were 
carried, as it would be absolutely impossible 
to live in the highly rarefied atmosphere of 
such a region." 

Such a vessel as Mr. Spencer describes 
would cost about £500 to construct ; but 
when it is remembered the vast fields open 
to aeronautical research, and the fame that 
awaits any valuable development, surely sach 
a small sum should be speedily forth- 

Mr. Percival Spencer has made ascents in 
most parts of this country, and we are 
enabled to reproduce photographs taken by 

at the minute of embarkation, Mr. Pollock 
— nephew of the celebrated Baron Pollock — 
who is an enthusiastic amateur aeronaut, and 
who had previously crossed the Channel by 
balloon, walked up to Mr. Spencer and 
suggested that as the wind was blowing in 
a direction propitious for a cross-Channel 
voyage, they should attempt the feat. 

"Although the balloon was small, being 
only of 86,000 cubic feet capacity, and we 
were in nowise equipped for such a special 
trip," remarked Mr. Spencer, " the wind 
was blowing north-west at the time ; and as 1 
was in the spirit for such an adventure, I 



him from the balloon on the occasions of its 
ascents from York and Wolverhampton, as 
well as those of his Crystal Palace start. 
Mr. Spencer has accomplished one or 
two notable achievements in connection 
with long-distance ballooning. The longest 
journey he has made through the air is 150 
miles, but he has often travelled over 100 
miles, as, for example, on his three trips from 
the Crystal Palace to France. The last 
occasion on whicli he accomplished this re- 
markable ])erformance was on July 29th of 
last year. On that day Mr. Spencer had 
completed arrangements to accompany two 
irentlemen on an aerial excursion. Almost 

hurriedly postponed the voyage for my 
quondam passengers, and we set off. 

" It was half -past two in the afternoon 
when we ascended from the Crystal Palace 
grounds. The balloon travelled at a moderate 
rate of speed, and from our observations 
of the various landmarks we moved in the 
ideal direction. Sevenoaks was passed over in 
an hour at an altitude of 2,000 feet, but we soon 
rose to 5,000 feet. The day was particularly 
warm, and tlie heat radiated from the sun's 
rays caused the gas in the balloon to expand, 
while the clouds below kept cool the strata 
of air in which they moved, and thus pre- 
vented our descent into them. 



" Tiinbridge Wells was cliilj crossed, and 
at lialf-past four the English coastline was 
visible through the clouds immediately in 
front of ns. Only half an hour was left to 
decide w^iether we should descend on the 
Englisli coast or should continue the voyage. 
The wind still blew from the north-west, the 
balloon maintained its altitude, and we had 
three hundredweight of ballast in hand — in 
fact, everything augured for a pleasant pas- 
sage. Under the circumstances we decided 


to attempt the crossing. At 5.8 p.m. Hast- 
ings and St. Leonards were left behind, 9,000 
feet below, and in a short time the English 
coast was blotted out from view by the clouds. 
Now there was nothing to guide us on our 
journey. The silence was oppressive. The 
waters of tlie Channel were spread out behiw 
us, and appeared dark, desolate, and mi- 
te nan ted. 

" Mr. Pollock was the first to discern the 
outline of the French coast dimly visible on 

the horizon. We watched it with concen- 
trated intensity. Should we reach it? That 
was the question nppermost in our minds. 
At seven o'clock we had dropped to 7,000 
feet, but we seemed to make slow pro- 
gress towards onr destination. Difficulties 
now beset us. We had almost exhausted 
our supply of ballast, and the heat from 
the setting sun's rays was decreasing in 
power, so that the gas began to condense 
rapidly and the balloon to descend. It was 
imperative, however, that we should 
maintain our equihbrium at all costs, 
and we threw over the bags in which 
the ballast had been carried. At 
half-past seven we had risen to 
10,000 feet, and were being borne 
slowly onwards towards our goal. We 
could distinguish a wide estuary on 
, ■ the low-lying French coast, which 

Mr. Pollock recognised as the mouth 
of the Kiver Somme. 

"At a quarter to eight, although 
we had cast all extraneous weight 
overboard, we sank rapidly to 8,000 
feet, and terra fir ma was some ten 
miles distant. The question was, 
Should we reach the coast or should 
we drop into the sea ? The balloon 
gradually sank lower and lower. 
There was only the heavy grapnel, a 
mass of seventy pounds of steel, now 
remaining in the car. We cast this 
overboard, and the balloon speedily 
ascended to a height of 12,000 feet, 
which was the greatest altitude 
recorded during the voyage. But 
Ave only remained poised at this 
height for a few moments, and 
then fell through the air at about 
500 feet per minute. I slung the 
camera which I carried on the expe- 
dition up in the rigging, so that the 
films should not be damaged by the 
water, for on such adventurous 
A'oyages as this one has to be prepared 
for any emergency that may arise. 
"We continued falling till the height 
w\as about 5,000 feet ; but now our feara were 
all dispelled, for we were floating over the 
land. Preparations were now hurried for- 
ward for our descent. At eight minutes 
past eight in the evening we safely landed at 
Woincourt, midway between Dieppe and 
Treport, and one and a half miles inland. It 
had taken about five and a half hours to 
accomplisli the journey from the Crystal 
Palace, at an average speed of twenty miles 
an hour." 



b^'j,*-;** .«^.' 


' .^ ^ 


Our conversation then turned to the 
absorbing topic of ballooning to the North 
Pole, and the bold attempt made by Herr 

Andree to lift the veil surrounding that 
mysterious region by means of the aerial 




"When Andree first came to England," 
said Mr. Spencer, " he paid me a visit, and we 
had an entertaining conversation on the possi- 
bilities of reaching the Pole by balloon. Andree 
was most confident of success. Certainlj his 
theories w-ere brilliant, but I am afraid that 
when reduced to actual w^orking order would 
be found to be almost impracticable." 

" Do you think there is no prospect of 
Andree's returning ? " 

"I am afraid not, Nothing has been 
heard of him ; and as three Arctic winters, 
with their six months' darkness, have passed 
by, I think Andree and his brave companions 
have shared the fate that has attended so 
many expeditions which have attempted 
to explore the Polar Regions. Then, again, 
there were the reports that remains of the 
balloon and three bodies had been discovered 
by the Tunguses, a native tribe inhabiting 
the Taimur Peninsula, in Northern Siberia. 
So circumstantial were the descriptions con- 
tained in the telegrams from Kras Noyarsk 
that I had little doubt myself but that 
they referred to the unfortunate explorers." 

" Then do you consider it is impossible to 
reach the Pole by balloon ? " I inquired. 

" By no means. In fact, I think it is the 
only way by which the Pole will ever be 
gained. But, instead of attempting the whole 
journey by balloon, I think the latter should 
be attached to an expedition which should 
push on as far towards the Pole as possible, 
establish headquarters at the most northern 
point for the winter, so that the crew may 
become acclimatised, and then set off with 
the first wind blowing from the south in the 
following spring or summer. I think 
the balloon should be of sufficient size to 
carry the weight of a complete sledging 
expedition — of two men, with necessary 
sledges, dogs, ammunition, fuel, and victuals. 
With this load the balloon could set forth, 
and the Pole would be reached in about 
thirty-five hours. The aeronauts would then 
descend at the Pole, would abandon the 
balloon, and the return journey to the 
headquarters would have to be accomplished 
on sledges. One important suggestion is 
that the gas should be carried in compressed 
cylinders, and not manufactured on the spot, 
as in the Andree case. This would enable 
the balloon to be inflated at any moment in 
a very few hours." 



' 7>"'-^(^*<.r'-'^; 




IT was a clioppj sea in tlie Bay of Biscay, 
and the good ship Laivelot was thump- 
ing her heart out to keep np the 
contract speed of ten knots an hour. She 
hailed from Sunderland, and was at present 
loaded with a cargo " miscellaneous " for 

The captain's wife was very sea-sick. She 
was a Northampton lass, and at Northampton 
you don't get enough nautical experience to 
warrant you free from heartache, going from 
the Channel to the Bay. Of course, she 
hadn't thought of tluit when she married the 
skipper ; but she had plenty of time for any 
such reflection now, as she lay in her bunk 
and groaned. 

On the sofa at the side of the cabin was 
the " old man." He looked ill enough to be 
sea-sick, too, for sea-sickness among seamen 
is not so unconunon as you would think it 
ought to be ; but he was only drunk. 

Gradually into . the monotony of their 
double breathing there came another sound, 
the clamour of a crowd, a single but emphatic 
protestation, a scuffle and the tread of many 
feet, and the door of the cabin Avas thrown 
violently open, and, the vessel helping with a 
lurch, half a dozen men came tumbling in. 
The skipper's wife closed her eyes again, the 
skipper did not move. Then the steward 

'' Now, tlieii," he said ; " now, as you've all 
puslied your way past me, say what you want 

^..dsmai^ii^^4s&£LSAi^. .^y*'«-««/»t «^'4*v,iw#*^&-9^^ 

By Alkrkj) SiADE. 
Illustrated hij Victor Frooi. 

to the old man 'imself, and say it quick, 
before I throw you all out again." 

The half a dozen had increased to fourteen ; 
the steward had not stopped to reckon the 

" Talk to 'im ? " said an able-bodied seaman 
in a blue jersey. "Might as well talk to a 
log of wood." 

^" Then, if you've got nothing to say," said 
the steward, who hailed from Liverpool, 
where they make them little, but tough, 
"get out of it and get for'ard, where you 

And, his Liverpool birth and education 
getting the better of him, he started support- 
ing his advice by physical argument. He 
might have got through alive — ^he had a 
dog's chance that way, anyhow ; but luckily 
for him he didn't have to take it. For the 
skipper's wife opened her eyes. 

Then she saw the crowd. "Good after- 
noon," she said, as pleasantly as possible. 

No one answered ; but they paused in 
their extermination of the steward. 

" Is their anything I can do for you ? " 
she asked feebly. 

" 'Cause, if not," urged the steward, as 
impressively as partial strangulation would 
allow, " you'd better clear out to your own 
end of the ship." 

Still no one answered, not even to the 

" 1 don't know what you want," said the 




skipper's wife, " and I should feel it a favour 
if you wouldn't mind telling me." 

" It's Urn we want," explained the able 
body in the jersey. 

" Oh, do please let poor Kichard alone," 
pleaded his wife. " He has only just come off 
duty and is trying to get a little sleep." 

" Only just come off ? " said another of 
the crowd. " He's been like that these three 
days. And we ain't a-taking any more, so 
there ! " 

"Mutiny," commented the steward — " that's 
the name for it ; and it's six months' hard 
labour, according to the Act." 

" Well, call it mutiny, if you like," said 
another. " We ain't goin' to sail under him 
any longer, that's what it comes to. And so 
we tell 'im, don't w^e, mates ? " 

The mates said they did ; but they were 
mistaken, for the skipper did not hear a 
single word. He was snoring. 

"We want a proper officer, we do," 
exclaimed the first mutineer. " Not a thing 
like that. He's been drunk ever since we 
left port, he has." 

The skipper's wife turned paler still ; the 
air was strong with rum. Then she flushed 

" You are a liar," she said calmly. " My 
husband has fatigued himself too much and 
is ill." 

" That's all very well," was the sullen reply. 
" While he's lying there, a bloomin' invalid, 
who's going to take command of the boat ? " 
The skipper's wife was on her feet next 
moment ; she turned and faced the crowd. 
An inspiration came to her. Answering 
slowly, and as if the answer were quite natural 
— " / am," she said. " While my husbaiid is 
ill I take his place. / am commander ! " 

For a moment the situation was critical ; 
the steward moved up between her and the 
men, to be a sort of buffer when the rush 
should come. The w^oman still faced the 
crowd, with nostrils that quivered, but hps 
set firm. 

A clean-shaven man, in a red shirt and a 
fancy pair of braces, stepped out from the 

"So you are, lady," he said, jerking his 
hand and ducking his head to form a 
respectful salute. " So you are ; and I sails 
under yer." 

And he took up a position alongside the 
steward. The balance wavered. 

" I'm with you. Cockney," said the " boy," 
a strapping young bargee, who had never 
steered a steamer, and so had signed on 
" ordinary seaman." 

The balance went well over. 
" And credit it does to you, mum," said a 
recruit from Yarmouth, grown tired of 
herring-fishery ; " and I makes another." 

A dozen of the mutineers took off their 
caps ; the " commander " just smiled. 

" Well," she said, more particularly to the 
man in the blue jersey, "what made you 
bring all these men here and upset us all 
like this ? " 

" I didn't bring 'em here," protested the 
person referred to, in full retreat. " I wasn't 
lookin' to be cap'n, anyway you put it." 

" Then, who was ? "'asked the commander, 
scenting news. 

He did not answer. Still, there was no 
need ; the others did for him. " Jorgensen," 
explained the chorus. 

" And who's Jorgensen, if you please ? " 
was the polite rejoinder. 

"The second mate," said the steward, 
speaking very loud — " what is now in the 
alley-way, trying to sneak out." 

Somebody found time to intercept him, 
however, and to lead him in. A lanky Swede 
appeared, looking very uncomfortable. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jorgensen," was 
his greeting. " I don't think it at all nice 
of you, you know, carrying on like this. 
Aren't you very sorry for what you've done ? " 
"Yes," confessed Mr. Jorgensen, and he 
looked a,s if he meant it. 

" Then there's my hand," said the skipper's 
wife, " and we'll say no more about it." 

" Now," she went on, " all of you get back 
to your places. I am going on the bridge." 

They all went out. And the skipper's 
wife, in another flash of inspiration, proceeded 
to put on the skipper's cap and oilskins. 
" Steward ! " she cried. 
"One moment, mum," was the answer 
from the alley-way. "I'm just polishing 
up." It seemed to be the blue jersey man 
he was polishing up; and he seemed to be 
making an exceptionally good job of it. 

The skipper's wife turned to the skipper, 
turned and stooped and kissed him on the 
lips. Then with a great effort she lifted 
him in her arms and carried him to her 
bunk, laid him there as gently as if he were 
a child, covered him with a rug, kissed him 
again, and crept away. 

And then she walked forward with as much 
dignity and grace as the rolling of the vessel 
would permit. In the chart-house she 
found the first mate — in irons. 

" Good gracious ! " cried the skipper's wife, 
" whatever have you been doing ? And who 
are you ? " she added as an afterthought. 

' For a luoment the situation was critical.' 



"Fin tirst mate," he answered apolo- 
('•etically ; " name, Tom Drake. They 
knocked my hat off, so I can't show you 
the three stripes, but I'm first mate all 
the same." . 

"Yes, hut those dreadful-lookmg things 
round your wrists ? " asked the skipper's 
wife in dismay. 

"Oh, yes, the bilboes," explamed lom 
Drake. " That Avas Jorgensen. When they 
mutinied, I got on the bridge with a 
belaying-pin. I downed two of the dogs, 
and I'd have got 'em all under, only Jorgen- 
gen— who, of course, I didn't suspect, being 
an officer— came up behind and collared 


Jorgensen had come up behind again and 
was grinning in the doorway. 

" You bad, wicked man ! " cried the 
skipper's wife, as she turned on him. 
" Release Mr. Drake this minute." 

So Jorgensen, who had possessed himself 
of all the keys, did so. The first mate went 
over to the cupboard in the corner and got 
out a revolver. He made sure it was loaded 
and then pointed it at Jorgensen. "Now, 
my man," he said, handing him the hand- 
cuffs, " just put these on yourself, before the 
trigger goes oft' and hurts you." 

The "skipper's wife lost all patience, 
stamping her Mttle foot on the floor. 

" What are you men thinking of ? " she 
exclaimed. " Am I captain here, or am I 
not? Put all those horrors away and 
shake hands at once. I've just forgiven Mr. 
Jorgensen, and he's promised never to do it 

Tom Drake stood back and gasped. He 
was sinking out of his depth. He made 
an effort to get abreast of the situation, and, 
feeling that it was beyond him, surrendered 
on the spot. 

The two men shook hands as directed, 
with as much cordiality as if their hands had 
been dead fish. Tom Drake fell back again 
and waited further developments. 

" Now I am going on the bridge," said 
the skipper's wife, pulling the skipper's cap 
well over her head. 

On the bridge was the third mate, Mr. 
Wilson, quite a young man with a very 
promising moustache. As soon as he saw a 
lady he raised his hat, let the wheel go hang, 
and stepped forward to help her up the 
gangway. The lady waved him indignantly 
aside and clambered up by the handrail. 

" I'm surprised at you," she said ; " you're 
as bad as the rest." 

" What ? " stammered the third mate, who 

thought the remark had referred to his 

" Going and joining a mutiny ! " went on 
the skipper's wife. " k nice-looking young 
man like you, too." 

" I didn't join any mutiny," protested the 
third mate. 

"Oh, indeed," rejoined the skipper's wife 
incredulously. " Then why aren't you 
downstairs in irons, like Mr. Drake ? " 

" Well, it was like this, you see," cried the 
third mate in his defence. "The second, 
Jorgensen, you know, came into my cabin 
while I was asleep and shoved a cold pistol 
under my nose. ' Give me best,' he said, 
' or you're a dead man.' ' I'll be ' — I mean, I 
said I certainly wouldn't. And I knocked 
the pistol out of his hand while I was saying 
it. I wouldn't give any man best, till he 
had bested me. ' Well,' he said, 'let's have 
a tussle for it.' " 

" Well ? " queried the skipper's wife, seeing 
the third mate hesitated. 

" Well," explained the third mate, " well, 
he did best me. And so I caved in." 

The first mate had taken the wheel and 
was whirling it round so violently and fre- 
quently that the steam quartermaster under- 
neath, that they had just managed to mend, 
was puffing away like an express steam-engine. 
For the first mate was in great distress of 
mind. Thirty-seven years had he sailed 
the sea, and never been on a ship like this 

"Now that I am captain," said Mrs. 
Proctor, "what ought I to do ? What 
would Mr. Proctor do in my place ? " 

The second mate laughed, the first re- 
mained stolid, the third proceeded to 
enlighten her from the superiority of his 
recent certificate. 

" You'd better take the sun first," he told 
her, " then fix our latitude and decide the 
change of course." 

"Certainly," said the skipper's wife, 
knitting her brows under the skipper's 

" Nothing of the kind," interrupted the 
first mate. "All that's the officers' work, mum. 
All you've got to do is to give orders, and ice 
obey them and see that the crew obey them, 

In saying which the first mate contrived 
to kick the third several times on the painful 
part of the shin. The third at last accepted 
the hint to be silent. 

"That sounds very nice," mused the 
skipper's wife, " and much easier than the 
other. And now that the sun's coming out 



so beautifully, I fcliink 1 will go aud dress 
for luncli." 

The first uiate saluted ; the second stared ; 
the third took off his hat and rendered assist- 
ance. But, dismissing him at the foot of 
the gangway, the skipper's wife went aft into 
her cabin ; and there she sank down on her 
knees at her husband's side and sobbed 

She was only eighteen, this fair, fragile 
girl ; and she was only just married. And 
she had married a drunkard. Here, alone 
with him, the awful discovery cut into her 
heart like a knife. On land the captain had 
his company manners, always correct and 
manly ; now she saw him lying there, a 
drunken wreck, with none of the man left in 

She did not know that since he had seen 
her and loved her he had battled strenuously 
against his vice. Long years of habit are hard 
to subdue, and tots of rum prove stern task- 
masters. All the honeymoon, for a month, 
he had been sober ; now the relapse had 
come, all the more thorough for his long 

She did not know, either, how much worse 
it might have been, or she would have been 
thankful he was not delirious ; but she knew, 
as she knelt and sobbed, that her poor young 
heart was breaking. Yet she loved him, even 
more than ever, and kissed him on the lips, 
and said, " Poor boy ! poor boy ! " 

Presently came a knock at the door — it 
was the steward. The steward hailed from 
Liverpool, where they make them little and 
they make them tough, but sometimes make 
them tender-hearted. He brought a tumbler 
of brandy hot. " For," he said, " it'll do you 
good, ma'am." 

"Thank you," she said, as she took it. 
There was a porthole open ; she threw the 
tumbler out. The steward regretted the 
brandy, but understood. 

" You look better, ma'am," he said, resign- 
ing himself to the loss. 

" Much better, thank you, steward," she 
said ; "quite well again." And then she 
burst into tears. They were both looking 
at the body in the bunk. 

The steward was a practical man and had 
had experience in these cases. " I'll give 
him something to keep the fever off," he 

" What ? " asked the skipper's wife. 

" Ammonia, if there's any in the medicine- 
chest," he answered ; " if not, it'll have to 
be salts." 

" I'll go and see," said the skipper's wife. 

The steward was left there reflecting ; liis 
thoughts went round to the brandy hot. 

"1 expect she's right," he mused. "It 
seemed almost wicked to do it, but I expect 
she's right. And, seeing as she's ' old man ' 
now, I'll do it, too." 

He lifted up the lid of the settee. There 
were seven bottles of rum still left un- 
emptied. He took them, one after the other, 
and, witli seven successive sighs, heaved 
them through the porthole into the sea. 
Then he went out with a very unhappy 
countenance, found the ammonia for the 
skipper's wife, laid the table in the saloon, 
and rang the dinner-bell. 

The skipper's wife, as became her position 
of commander, took the head of the table. 
She had left off her oilskin overcoat and 
looked charming in a more feminine garb. 
Mr. Jorgensen, who had arrived first, told 
her so, and then Drake came in and he had 
to move a seat down. 

" Where is Mr. Wilson ? " asked the 
skipper's wife. 

" Someone has to be on the bridge," 
explained Mr. Jorgensen ; " and as he's the 
last in rank, of course it's him." 

" Let him be called at once," decided the 
skipper's wife. 

The first mate felt he could not stand the 
strain of the conversation any longer. " I'll 
go," he said, rising. 

" Certainly not, Mr. Drake," objected the 
skipper's wife. "What are you thinking 
of ? But perhaps," she continued, " Mr. 
Jorgensen wouldn't mind telling him—and 
taking his place till after dinner ? " 

Mr. Jorgensen evidently did mind ; but 
what else could he do but go ? " All right," 
he murmured, and went. And the sailors 
on that watch had a most uncomfortable 
time in consequence. 

Just then there appeared a gaunt individual 
in a new suit of serge and no collar ; he 
wore a beard and was still glistening with 
recent ablutions. He sauntered in with a 
general nod and took his place at table on 
her left. 

" Good morning," said the skipper's wife, 
in greeting, " and who are you, please ? " 

" I'm the chief," was the answer. 

" Oh, no, you're not," denied the skipper's 
wife. " I'm chief here, being commander, 
you know.". 

" Chief engineer," was the answer. 

" What's that ? " asked the skipper's wife. 

Even the chief engineer felt at a loss how^ 
to go on. 

" Oh, of course," cried the skipper's wife, 



j^„ '"W^V^gtWi^s- -«^ 


' The third mate came in and diverted the conversation." 

after thinking seriously. "The engines, 
that's what pushes it along, isn't it ? And 
you're the man that shovels in the coal, I 
suppose ? " 

Then the third mate came in and diverted 
the conversation ; and so elated was he that 
his soup stood idle before him and grew 
cold, as he treated the company to a brilliant 
display of conversational fireworks. The 
steward noted it with satisfaction and figured 
out how much saving it would mean to the 
victualling department ; and then the third 
mate, seeing the others had finished and got 
up to go, made a spurt and upset all his 
calculations. And the steward, in high 
dudgeon, temporarily, went out with the 
rest," but the skipper's wife sat still and 

" Have some more ? " she said, when he 
had got through his courses. 

" No, thank you," he answ^ered, and 
perceived they w^ere alone. 

He flushed and stuttered. 

" I have something to say to you, Mrs. 
Proctor," he managed at last to explain. 

" To me ? " in the inconsequential way 
dear women have. 

" Yes. I'm awfully fond of you. I knew 
we should be chummy from the start. And 
I want to help you." 

The skipper's wife held silence, this time 
really perplexed. 

" It's a pretty rough boat, this, and that's 
a fact. Especially for a lady — a lady all 
alone, like you are, you know\ And some- 
times a man'd come in handy — in the fighting 
line, I mean. So I thought that if you ever 
found anything disagreeable, which could be 
put right by a man of that sort — if any 
punching ought to be done, you know, to 
enforce proper respect and discipline — you've 
only got to drop me a hint and I'll do it. 
I'm an officer now, you know^, and I'll take 
on any man in the ship, bar none, with 

And the third mate finished his harangue 
and looked honest. 

" You're a dear, good fellow," said the 
skipper's wife, " and it's very kind of you 
to think of all that. Not that it will be 
necessary, of course. I should like to see 
anyone attempt to be rude to me. But since 
you offer your services, well, then this after- 
noon you shall show me all over the ship." 



The third mate accepted the suggestion 
in ecstasy ; then he remembered it was his 
watch, and with hicky instinct went out to 
see Drake about it. That long-suffering 
mariner knew, of course, that Mrs. Proctor 
was in it ; so he took the watch himself and 
wrote a letter to his wife for her advice. As 
he couldn't possibly get an answer for a 
couple of months, it seemed that this advice 
would be superfluous. But it eased his mind 
in the meantime. 

Mrs. Proctor went to her cabin. The 
skipper was still lying, one might think, 
unconscious ; but the steward, who came m 
with some beef tea, explained that his 
temperature was well down and he was getting 
on first rate. He took the tea from his wife 
and gulped it down, yet never once dared 
to meet her eyes, for he was ashamed. 

And she — oh ! strange inconsistency of 
angels ! — she put on a weak assumption of 
anger, now that he could see her, and was 
silent, and so chided him, and he took it for 
his punishment. She told him then that all 
was right, that he must still lie down ; and 
so he shrank back in his bunk, trembling 
and prostrated. But, departing, she looked 
back through the crack of the door and 
walked away forward with an eye that 

The third mate was waiting for her, in his 
best clothes. The second mate was, by 
rights, off duty, and should have been in his 
cabin ; yet he seemed always to have some- 
thing to do quite close to them, and when 
he could, without being discovered, was 
staring at the skipper's wife with eyes strangely 
bloodshot. Nobody noticed it, and the screw 
went round and the vessel plunged forward. 

The next morning, after breakfast, the 
steward told her she was wanted. She 
stepped on to the deck and found a depu- 
tation of the sailors awaiting her, headed by 
the man in the blue jersey, who was sup- 
ported on the left by the man in the red 
shirt, and pushed from the back by the pro- 
moted bargee. 

Somebody nudged the blue-jerseyed one 
very hard, so he spoke. 

" My name's Galloway," he said. 

"Yes, you wicked man!" retorted the 
skipper's wife. " And it was you who tried 
to do all those dreadful things yesterday." 

" My name's Galloway," he said, clinging 
to that indisputable fact and refusing to be 
led away to side issues, " and I beg pardon." 

" He begs pardon, mum," was the cor- 
roboration from all assembled ; " and we do, 

" Then I'm sure I gladly grant it," said 
the skipper's wife, " and I think you very 
sweet to come and say so." 

" And, seeing as how things is, and you 
being in it likewise, mum," said Galloway, as 
mouthpiece for all, " we've been and sworn 

" Indeed ! " murmured the skipper's wife, 
who had not the faintest notion what he was 
talking about. 

" We have, mum. All of us. Likewise 
the cook. Come one, come all, that's our 
motter ; treat all alike ; and we're teetotallers." 

And not one of the men looked to where 
the captain was lying drunk, though every- 
one thqre was thinking of him. 

The skipper's wife nearly kissed the 
speaker, but she said instead — 

" What would you choose as the loveliest 
treat in the world ? " 

" Sea- pie," the chorus rang up to the 

" Then sea-pie you shall have for dinner 
to-day ; and, another thing, I'll make it 

Now, the cook used to be an artilleryman 
before he went to sea. No stranger had ever 
entered his galley, and the only one who had 
tried was still in the hospital. Judge, then, 
of his astonishment when he found the 
skipper's wife in command of the galley, and 
he following her round like a veritable galley 

" For," she said, " I'm going to make a 
sea-pie " ; and she had put on one of his 
aprons and tucked up her sleeves before she 
remembered she didn't know what a sea-pie 

The cook took great pride in enlightening 
her, then trotted off after her to get the in- 
gredients from the steward. The steward 
gave them the flour and meat and things, 
best cabin quality ; and the skipper's wife 
spent the rest of the morning making sea-pie. 
Not one, but four, for the sailors and the 
firemen and the engineers and aft ; and all 
of them three-deckers. They are classic, 
those sea-pies, now ; you can hear long 
recitatives of them in any Sailors' Home 
where the Union Jack is floating. And the 
morning was such an emotional one for the 
cook, that he remembered he had been human 
before he became artilleryman and cook ; 
and as soon as he reached home again he 
married and started an eating-house of his 
own, and its name is the Lady Proctor, and 
it stands down Wapping way. 

After that dinner everyone seemed to take 
a holiday. 

2 A 



The skipper was still confined to his cabin 
and appeared to be sleeping, and his wife at 
his side w^as half -dozing, too. He was much 
better, was Richard ; he would be getting up 
in a day or two ; and both of them knew, 
though neither had said so, he would never 
lie down again in a state like that. And as 
the skipper's wife thought of this she smiled 
and nodded in her drowsiness. 

Her eyes must have been closed, for she 
did not see the door opened ; 
yet there was the second mate 
in front of her, his hand raised 
as if in command, his eyes still 
strangely bloodshot. 

The skipper's wife shrank in 
her seat ; her breath came in 
gasps and she could not speak. 

" Do not be afraid,*' he said, 
laughing ; " we are quite alone, 
at last. And now we can talk 
without fear of interruption." 

"Don't speak so loudly, you 
will wake him ! " 

" Oh, him ! " in a tone of 
ineffable contempt. " Your hus- 
band^ you mean ? " 

" Yes, my husband. What 
then ? " 

" Nothing. Only it is a pity. 
For otherwise I might have 
married you myself. Now — ^I 
can only offer you my love." 

" Silence, I tell you. Here, 
before him ?" 

" A log, my dear, nothing but 
a log we can afford to ignore." 
♦ " You coward ! how dare you 
insult him ! " 

" If I insult him, he himself 
should resent it. Why does he 
not protect his wife also, instead 
of leaving it to me to offer — my 
protection ? " 

She did not answer. Under 
the bunk was a row of drawers, 
which her skirts concealed ; she 
was opening one and feeling in it. 

" What do you say ? You lose nothing 
by the exchange, you must — confess. While 
poor hubby is thus, let us say, invalided, I 
will take his place. Come, kiss and be 

Still she said nothing ; but she had found 
it. A tiny little silver-plated revolver, one 
of her husband's wedding-presents to her— a 
very good choice and strangely appropriate 

The second mate drew a step nearer, with 


arms outstretched to embrace her ; his 
caught the glitter of the muzzle, 

" Go — at once— without any noise—or, by 
my love for him^ I tire and kill you ! " 

The second mate laughed. It was such a 
little toy. Then he looked again, and he 
did not go nearer, for the barrels were 
loaded, and even bullets so small as that 
make very ugly wounds. 

And the skipper's wife held his head to her breast." 

" Are you going ? " she whispered. 

He looked from the pistol to her. Her 
eye faced him and did not flinch. He 
blinked and looked again. It was of steel, 
that eye ; there was something there he 
could not conquer. And he dared not speak 
and he dared not go nearer ; but his arms 
fell to his side and his hands hung listless, 
and, without knoAving it, he found himself 
retreating and had passed through the door 



The steward had finished a plug with the 
cook and was coming aft again. As he came 
in the saloon alley-way he thought he heard 
something fall. The skipper's wife had 
fainted to the ground. So the steward, 
whose medical attainments were entu^ely 
practical, made up his mind she wanted air. 
Lifting her gently, he carried her to the top 
bridge, where the third mate made her 
comfortable under the storm canvas and 
brought up a chart of the Great Australian 
Bight to fan her with. And then the 
steward remembered he had got some 
smuggled Florida-water aboard and he went 
back to fetch it. 

He found a gaunt, pale figure in the saloon, 
trying to open the spirit-locker ; the steward 
had emptied that when he sacrificed the 

"Steward," begged the captain feebly, " I 
want a pick-me-up." x\nd if he had not 
held on to the railing he would have fallen 
to the deck. 

The steward remembered the captain's 
wife. " Can't do it, sir," he said. 

" Give me something to set me up for five 
minutes," ordered the captain. "Bo you 
hear ? " 

The steward heard, and there was some- 
thing in the other's voice that compelled 

He went to the medicine-chest. There 
was a bottle of brandy there, for emergencies. 
He gave it to the captain. With a tap on 
the bulk-head the captain had broken off 
the neck, then raised it to his lips and 
drained it dry. 

" Throw the bottle overboard," he cried •, 
"it is the last I ever touch. And now," 
he said, bracing himself up, " I want you to 
get Mr. Jorgensen down the lazarette.^ I 
Ihall be there, waiting for him. Savez ? " 

"The steward did, and approved, and went 
forward to fetch the second mate. 

The lazarette is a little hold in the stern, 
where the steward feeps his stores. " And," 
said the steward, " there's a rat down there ; 
I want you to catch him." 

" I'll go," said the second mate, " for I 
badly want to murder something." 

And he went down with a lantern, and the 
steward let fall the hatch after him, and 
locked it and sat on it, and then listened to 
the noise beneath. 

At last there were three knocks on the 
other side of the hatch. The steward got up 
and opened. 

The skipper emerged. " You had better 
see what you can do for him," he said, and he 
walked away, firm and upright and relentless. 
And the propeller slowed down and the 
vessel anchored, and they were outside Las 
Palmas. And the skipper put on his cap 
and took command. 

"Anyone ill?" said the medical officer 
who had come off from the shore, as the 
crew ranged alongside the bulwarks. 

"Only the second mate," sang out 

" What's he suffering from ? " asked 

" Partial break-up," said the steward. 
" I will see him," said the doctor, and 
at the second mate's own request took hir.i 
ashore to the hospital. 

Then they coaled and at dusk ' weighed 
anchor. And the moon came out and peeped 
through the skipper's porthole ; and in the 
cabin the skipper was on his knees, and the 
skipper's wife held his head to her breast, and 
his arms were clinging round her. 

And the screw went round and the ship 
went onward, onward to the Cape of Good 



By Basil Tozer. 

""11 /pONARCHS have succeeded moii- 
IV I ^rchs," writes Mr. Dehlavi, the 
well-known authority upon the 
antiquity of the game of polo, " nations 
have conquered nations, the world has seen 
innumerable changes, but the evergreen 
game of polo still survives the destructive 
forces of Time ! It thrives and promises to 
be co-extensive in existence with the love 
of sport among men. It claims superiority 
over other games inasmuch as it inculcates 
'good temper, presence of mind, perfect 
horsemanship, coolness of judgment, supple- 
ness of muscle, and unflinching nerve.' It 

pastime had its origin either among the 
people of Persia, or among the inhabitants 
of Chinese Tartary, so long ago as the fifth 
century B.C. Then, no less an authority 
than Sir William Ouseley remarks, in his 
" Travels in the East " — a volume published 
in 1819 — that polo was played in almost 
every reign of the Sassanian kings of Persia, 
and that it was taken up enthusiastically by 
the Mohammedan rulers of Persia, as it was 
played by their fire- worshipping predecessors. 
The Mohammedans, it may be remembered, 
conquered Persia about the year 632 a.d., 
and soon afterw^ards settled there as its 


claims superiority," lie repeats, " for it has 
always been played by the proud hands of 
martial races, and, let us hope, it will ever 
continue so to be." That such actually is 
the case any person can ascertain who is 
sufficiently energetic and possesses patience 
enough to dive deeply into the mass of 
ancient manuscripts which contain references 
to the early game of polo and are at present 
securely stored among the archives of the 
British Museum. Indeed, the antiquity of 
polo is so very great that no one has as yet 
been able to discover by whom the game 
was invented, though many have attempted 
to do so. Certain it is, however, that the 

rulers. Gradually the game came to be 
played in Greece, in Egypt, in Arabia, in 
India, in Afghanistan, and in Japan ; yet, 
though it can hardly be doubted that polo 
was introduced into India early in the tenth 
century, and introduced then presumably by 
the Mohammedans, it is a remarkable fact 
that the first horn fide polo match played in 
England took place less than thirty years 

Ever since that time, however, polo has 
been slowly acquiring popularity. Army 
men, of course, were the first to indulge in 
it and to help to foster our countrymen's 
growing fondness for the game ; and no 






doubt many more Englislimeii would have 
become keen about polo fifteen or twenty 
years ago but for the fact that, in those days, 
the average British soldier was a much less 
finished horseman than is the average British 
soldier of to-day. Indeed, anybody who 
will take the trouble to compare the actual 
horsemanship of the majority of the men 
who rode in the military steeplechases of 
about that period with the horsemanship of 
the majority of soldiers who ride now, can 
easily see for himself that what I say is but 

the truth. Hence it is that polo has been 
coming to the front as one of our national 
games only during the last four or five 
years. This year in particular it seems to 
be " booming." The " boom " is, of course, 
to some extent due to the fact that no less 
than six new polo clubs have been organised 
in England within the last eighteen 
months, of which the most important are 
the London Polo Club at the Crystal Palace, 
under the management of Major F. Herbert 
■ — who some years ago was considered one of 




the best polo players in Great Britain — and 
the Wimbledon Polo Club. Hurlingham 
and Ranelagh naturally hold their own at 
the top of tlie list of clubs where polo is 
played, and, for reasons sufficiently obvious, 
are likely to continue to do so for many 
years to come. 

Yetj though Englishmen are only now 
becjoming thoroughly alive to the fascinations 
of what has rightly been described as the 

Raj Bijey Singh. 

Risaldar Bhur Singh. 

which compai'atively few men take part, it is 
the lesser section of the general public that 
is genuinely interested in it or in seeing it 
played. Naturally, all Englishmen love to 
witness for once, at any rate, a game being 
played wdiich they have not seen played 
before, especially if it be a game which 
needs skill and courage, endurance and 
determination on the part of the players, as 
is the case with polo ; but this spasmodic 
inquisitiveness is. 


Capt. A. B. Mayne. H.H. Maharao TTinaid Singh Baliadur 
{founder of the Club). 

Flioto by Herzog & Higgins, Mhmv, India. 

" King of Games," tlie popularity of polo 
will never be, cannot ever be, so universal 
in these Islands as, let us say, the popularity 
of cricket or of football, for the simple reason 
that the majority of mankind take greater 
interest in, and consequently prefer to watch, 
games being played in which they themselves 
might be taking part. Such forms of 
pastime seem to appeal more directly to 
their sympathies, and as polo is a game in 

as a rule, 

It is by no 
means unusual to 
hear polo described 
as " a very cruel 
game " by persons 
who liave never 
played it and who 
know nothing about 
it. The late Mr. 
Moray Brown, who 
was an excellent 
judge of polo as 
well as of polo- 
ponies, and an 
extremely accom- 
plished writer upon 
the subject of polo 
and all apper- 
taining thereto, 
used often to lash 
himself into a 
fury upon reading 
the ridiculous 
articles denouncing 
the game, articles 
which appeared in 
several somewhat 
influential news- 
papers a few years 
ago. One writer in 
particular, I well 
remember, while 
attempting to draw 
a vivid contrast 
between polo and 
the primitive game 
called hockey, remarked that now, " instead 
of running on foot after the ball, the players 
are mounted, and it is the pomes' shins that 
come in for hard knocks, not their own," 
and so on. Another writer of the same 
stamp declared soon afterwards that polo was 
"almost as cruel a sport as steeplechasing 
and about upon a par in this respect with 
fox-hunting," and that "no man with a 
vestige of manhood left in him would wish 

Maharajah .)ai Singh. 








— % '*;. » - "--ir--T-r-|i rfntrf. ' *' V * ..^ ife ^>S» C *3iiijs:^^*^ ■" 



to see polo established in England as a 
national sport or anything in any way 
approaching to it." I need not trouble to 
point out the absurdity of such rambling 
statements. Polo, indeed, far from being a 
cruel form of amusement, is enjoyed by the 
ponies almost as thoroughly as most horses 
that have once been hunted ever afterwards 
delight in the sound of the horn and the 
sight of hounds. That it promises to become 
one of the most popular, if not actually the 
most popular, of our up-to-date out-of-door 
sports, I have already pointed out, so that, 
according to the writer whose words I have 
quoted, it would seem as if very few 
Enghshmen could boast of still possessing 
" a vestige of manhood." 

Unfortunately, the present popularity of 
polo has caused the prices of well-bred, fast, 
and thoroughly broken or trained polo- 
ponies to increase enormously, so that first- 
class polo seems likely soon to become a 
game in which only millionaires will be able 
to indulge. Who, ten years ago, would have 
thought of paying £500 or £600 for a 
single pony ? Yet now we frequently hear 
of polo-ponies bein^^ «old- for 500^ guineas, 
600 gmnea^,^-ft!Xd;" 700 guineas apiece, and 
only rjfiditiy two polo-ponies fetched respec- 

tive]/ 850 

and 900 


course, it would be absurd 
to suppose that the cleverest 
polo-pony ever foaled could 
be worth that amount of 
money, and polo-players have 
in a measure themselves to 
blame for raising the market 
price of ponies to the high 
level that it has now 
reached. Even in parts of 
India the pony market is 
undergoing a similar trans- 
formation. A few years ago 
a clever polo-pony would 
fetch in the open market 
between 160 rupees and 200 
rupees ; but now, owing to 
the willingness — nay, the 
anxiety — of certain English- 
men to pay higher figures, 
the average price of a tip- 
top pony in such places as 
Bombay, Calcutta, and 
Madras varies between 300 
and 600 rupees, and the 
prices seem likely to creep 
'- .^j ' . still higher. In the provinces 
in England certain up- 
to-date farmers are en- 
deavouring to neutralise entirely the de- 
plorable effects of the agricultural depression 
by breeding polo-ponies, and the attempts 
of some of them have so far proved fairly 
successful. It is very doubtful, however, 
whether in the long run the breeding of 
polo-ponies will be found to be a remunera- 
tive form of " farming," except by the men 
who have, so to speak, a large clientele of 
polo-players, and not players merely, but 
players who frequently buy fresh ponies, a 
thing that some of our provincial polo- 
players do but rarely. And even then the 
farmer cannot, or at any rate he should not, 
expect to command prices in any way 
approaching the figures given above ; for, 
after all, how many farmers are there who 
are able to train a pony as he needs to be 
trained for polo ? How many farmers, I 
ask you, have ever seen polo properly played ? 
How many have seen it played at all ? I 
well remember a year or two ago asking a 
middle-aged husbandman what he really 
thought the game of polo was like, for at 
that time he was seriously considering 
whether it might not be worth his while to 
breed a few ponies for what he termed '' the 
polo market." After pondering for several 
minutes and awkwardly scratching his head, 
he replied that he "couldn't say, not for 



certain, what polo was like," but that some 
of his friends had told him that it bore a 
striking resemblance to "this 'ere game of 
croak-it (croquet), only played a-horseback." 
Is it likely that women will ever take to 
polo ? The question is asked as regularly as 
the polo season comes round, but as yet 
nobody appears to have answered it satis- 
factorily. As a fact, women have " taken to 
polo " ; they have taken to it more than 
once, but unfortunately, or perhaps fortu- 
nately, polo has not taken to them. So long 
ago as the eleventh century, according to an 
ancient manuscript to be seen in the British 
Museum, " ladies of high birth and distinc- 
tion played polo," and in the year 1887 some 
sporting girls in Ireland attempted to revive 
the custom, but failed lamentably. Captain 
Younghusband, in his capital book, entitled, 
" Polo in India," gives us rather an amusing 
description of a game of polo played in India 
by some Englishwomen. He tells us, with 
somewhat grim humour, that the two men, 
one on each side, who were appointed to 
guard the interests and look after the safety 
of the women, had rather a hard time of it. 
The sides were " Married Women versus 
Unmarried." After two or three minutes' 
play one of the fair players cried out that 

she could not see the ball with her veil on. 
Instantly there was a ' halt, the veil was 
removed, and play went on. A few minutes 
later another damsel shouted out she could 
not play w4th her gloves on. Again the 
game was stopped, and the gloves were 
removed. A third one entrusted her hand- 
kerchief to her male partner, who, poor 
obedient thing, having no pockets in his 
tight breeches, found it difficult to take 
charge of. In the first attempt, therefore, 
the game did not go off w^ell ; but after a 
short interval for tea, which brightened up 
the players, the second turn proved a success, 
for which the captain complimented his fair 
friends profusely. This season a club, to be 
known as " The York and Cumberland 
Ladies' Polo Association," is being organised 
in the north of England. Whether it will 
prove a success remains to be seen. Person- 
ally, I " hae me doots," for I do not see how 
polo can ever be played properly either by 
men or by women riding in side-saddles. 
The promoters of the new organisation are 
sanguine of success, however, and we all 
know that when an Englishwoman makes up 
her mind to do a thing, she is, in the 
vernacular of the prize-ring, "very bad to 

photo hyl 

{F. P. D'Arcy^ Dublin. 

'WibO Q0C6 tbcvcl'' 
Bv A. J. Wall. 


Illustrated by Gunning King. 

WHEN Daniel Belloes came home on 
furlough, after two years' service 
in the Army, I did not know him. 
It was really amazing to look on the new 
Daniel and recall the old. I remembered him 
as a youth in whom no one, save perhaps his 
mother, saw any personal attractions. He 
was tall and strongly built, but he was 
almost as slow as our decrepit greybeards, 
and walked with a limping gait, due to no 
positive defect, but because he had got into 
the habit of carrying his right foot forward 
at right angles to his line of progression, 
with the knee bent. Intensifying every 
defect, he had the vacuous expression of the 
yokel at his w^orst. When it is added that 
he wore a smock, and generally walked beside 
his team chewing his whip, it is unnecessary 
to say that I have not seen a correcter 
specimen of Hodge as the town artist loves 
to draw him. 

Farmer Goodyer, his employer, who was 
often irritated at DaniePs leisurely progress 
through life, used to say that he paid the 
youth seven shillings a week for lounging to 
and from his work, and nicknamed him 
" Dan Slow." 

One memorable Saturday evening Daniel 
went into Suckton to see the sights, and 
among other things beheld a soldier home 
on furlough. He was walking the main 
street in arrogant scarlet pride, attended 

* Copyright, 1900, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America, 

by a small retinue of his acquaintances. 
Daniel stood gazing at the great man in 
envy, and when he stopped he sidled near 
the group and listened. He noted that the 
plain-coated friends listened deferentially to 
him, and when he saluted passing girls 
with terms of affection the latter did not 
resent his attentions. Daniel sighed again 
and again, and then the thought passed 
through his mind that such an eminent 
position was not beyond him, that he had 
only to seek out Sergeant Trelfall, in River 
Street, and he, Daniel Belloes, would be as 
the great man before him, clothed with the 
majesty of scarlet and adored by the maids. 
The very thought induced in him the 
semblance of a military carriage ; he stiffened 
his back and swung his arms in military 
fashion, reflecting proudly that he was at 
least an inch taller than the soldier. Daniel 
did not w^ait for his enthusiasm to cool, 
but when the lordly warrior condescended 
to accept the invitation of his court, and 
turned into the River Inn, he went straight 
to Sergeant Trelfall, and before twenty-four 
hours had passed he was no longer a common 
civilian to be chivied by Farmer Goodyer. 

I remember there was some laughter in 
the village when it was spread abroad that 
Daniel had joined the British Army. If 
they had taken Daniel they w^ould take 
anybody, was the prevalent opinion, and 
Farmer Goodyer declared that he would send 
his pump-handle to be made into a soldier. 
" It have zo much zense as Dan," said he, 





4 ' ^'^ ^^z^'iTcM 

^vNi i ^^^,:_ K.I NIV 

" He sidled near the group and listened." 

"and it do move just about zo quick. The 
virst thing they'll have to do iv they keeps 
en — which I do doubt — will be to put en 
through a mangle and straighten en out, vor 
he alius walks as iv the strings ov his joints 
be gwone. An insult to Her Most Gracious 
Majesty to charge she vor a red jacket 
vor he." 

We soon forgot all about Dan ; but now he 

had come home, and it was impossible to 
believe that there was any connection 
between Slow Dan and the figure that 
swaggered down the village street in spotless 
uniform, with head thrown back, cane 
twirling, and a gait that was exaggeratedly 
military. As he smiled condescendingly 
upon us it seemed that he could not be Dan 
Belloes, but some impossibly magnificent 



incarDation of the youth we knew. The 
thought crossed my mind that here alone 
the British Army was justified. 

His condescension was extreme. He 
saluted us and asked graciously after our 
welfare ; he asked Widow Malpas if she still 
had Old Joe, the decrepit old pony, and he 
told Wilson he had been admiring his turnips 
as he passed along. As the great lord moves 
among his tenantry and inquires after their 
welfare, so did Daniel Belloes, private, con- 
descend to take interest in our petty lives. 
But I know when he reached home and saw 
his mother he relapsed into his childhood's 
tongue. " I be glad to zee 'ee, just about," 
he said, and kissed her. 

In the evening he showed himself to our 
youth. " Bert, me lad," he said to filbert 
Sowle, " still kicken in this one-horse 
show ? Can't make out you fellers never 
seeing any life." In a few minutes he had 
gathered his little court and was most 
affable to all of them, though he declared 
every few minutes that he could not under- 
stand their want of lust for life. " ' Ton my 
soul,' I says to meself as I come along to-day, 
* fancy me been buried alive here now.' " 

They were shy in his presence, and the 
conversation for some time was a monologue. 
By degrees they managed to ask a few ques- 
tions, and Dick Challey was so maladroit as 
to ask him if he really liked " sojering." 
Daniel laughed in supreme contempt. " Just 
look at him ! " he said, pointing to the 
unhappy Challey. " He asks I if I like 
sojering ! " and he drew himself up, and 
the rest of our youth, looking from one to 
the other, had their answ^er. 

" I say, lads," he said at last, " I've 
talked my throat dry ; let's move to the 
canteen for a wet. Come along, all of you ; 
this is my shell-out." 

He held his glass of beer up to the light 
with a look on his face which implied that 
he feared the worst. He sipped and all his 
fears were confirmed. " You pore beggars ! " 
he said in a low voice, and he sipped again. 
" I apologise, lads ; but if any of you should 
ever call and see me at our barracks you shall 
have a drop of real genuine stuff. Never 
mind, though, if you're used to it, drink it." 

Many stories did Daniel pour forth that 
night, some of which seemed improbable, but 
no one questioned them. Daniel's battalion 
was stationed at Belfast, and Ireland to many 
of us is still a wild land where rebels are as 
common as tramps with us, and where it is 
wise for the soldier to sleep with his rifle by 
his side, and to most of his listeners Daniel 

was as one who had returned from foreign 
lands. On the whole it seemed a glorious 
life, and there were some who resolved that 
night that, " before long," they would also 
become men of war. 

So far his visit had seemed harmless 
enough, but the next day Daniel unwittingly 
began to make history in our village. 

That afternoon I met Dan with Maggie 
Debbs, who is " w^alked out " by Tom 
Thatcher, and it was evident Maggie felt 
highly honoured. In the ordinary course 
Tom at that hour would have been at work 
in Jesty's smithy, but, as luck would have it, 
the smith had sent him to do a small job at 
the inn. He looked a little hurt as he came 
upon them and saw how pleased his Maggie 
looked, but he was more pained when the 
soldier, displaying to the full his air of con- 
descension, saluted him with " Hello, Tom !" 
and Maggie merely nodded and turned away 
her head to make some laughing reply to her 
consort. Tom had stopped, intending to 
show Daniel his relations with the girl, and 
he felt like a fool as they passed on and left 
him standing there. 

The Belloeses' cottage is in the lane that 
skirts the churchyard, and that evening, 
having occasion to pass, I found Daniel sitting 
on the garden wall, smoking his pipe, with 
no less than five girls round him whom he 
was amusing vastly, to judge from their 
merriment. I foresaw tragical times in store, 
for among the maidens I not only saw 
Maggie, but Sally Laney and Polly Reddout, 
who, in accordance with nightly custom, 
ought at that hour to have been walking out 
with their adoring swains. 

Yulgar curiosity made me turn round, and 
I sauntered back towards the cross-roads 
and there I found what I expected. Dick 
Challey, Tom Thatcher, and Jim Hoiley w^ere 
propped against the wall, looking very dis- 
consolate. They w^ere waiting for the fickle 
maids who had been fascinated by an arrogant 
carriage and a red jacket. Miss Laney and 
Miss Reddout did, I w^as informed, over an 
hour after the usual time, come down the 
street and were joined by Dick and Jim, but 
Love that evening had an irritable, sneering 
temper, and there w^as no sweetness in the 
communion of souls. 

Next day the infection had spread still 
further. Between two and three that after- 
noon I saw Jinny Peters in her best hat and 
Sunday jacket saunter past the church. Now% 
Jinny is a hard-working girl, and I never 
remembered to have seen her before at that 
hour indulging in frivolous walks, and my 



suspicions were aroused when presently she 
slowly returned and again went back. 
Presently Private Belloes came out and 
accidentally, as he doubtless surmised, met 

" How do, miss?" said Dan, with a military 
salute. " Nice day, ain't it ? " 

" It be beautiful, reely," said Jinny 

" Where're you off, my dear, at this time 
o' day ? " 

" Oh, nowhere in particler," said Jinny. 
" I thought I'd take a walk up along, as it 
be zo nice, and I med zee Polly Reddout or — 
or zomebody." 

At that moment there was a diversion, for 
Kate Lucy Tickerton came up. Kate Lucy, 
to my mind, is one of the prettiest girls in 
our village. It is not the general opinion, 
however, for she happens to have a glorious 
head of hair of a pronounced auburn tint, 
and there is a prejudice against hair of that 
colour, and there are some who pity Kate 
Lucy for the defect. It was perhaps in 
consequence that she was keeping company 
with Albert Sowle. There are young men I 
like better than Albert. 

Kate Lucy and Jinny are not intimate 
friends, but Kate went up to Miss Peters 
with the greatest cordiality. " Whatever be 
you doen out at this time, Jinny ? " she 
asked. " Bain't it a vine day ? " 

" Yery," said Jinny, not altogether pleased 
at Kate Lucy's advent. 

" Grand day, I calls it," remarked Daniel. 

" Zo grand as grand," replied Kate Lucy. 
" Be you comen up along, Jinny ? " 

" Yes, we be comen, ain't us ? " said Dan 

" Who zaid you may ? " asked Jinny, 
and both girls laughed as Dan pulled a wry 
face and tried to look woebegone. 

" Can't I come, too, my dears ? " he in- 
quired. " I can talk 'bout hats and dresses ; 
I knows all the fashions. Now, come along ! 
I walks in the middle, and if you feels 
frightened or lonely I'll put my arms round 
you both ! " 

They were aghast at his impudence, and 
laughed to exhaustion. " You hadn' better 
come near we. Master Imperence ! " cried 
Jinny ; and Dan, accepting the invitation, 
joined them and made them for an hour 
the proudest and happiest maids in the 
village. He entertained them with pictures 
of military life more highly coloured than 
those he had related in the taproom, and 
boasted of the prowess of his regiment among 
the good-looking girls of Ireland. 

" However these fellers about here can 

live as they do, when there's the Army, I 
can't understand. Pore dears, they've never 
seen any life ! If I had me choice of leaven 
the Army or been sliced into little bits, what 
should I say ? I should say, ' Gret the knives 
ready and begin slicen.' " 

** Iv I was a man I should .love to be a 
sojer," said Kate Lucy. 

" So should I, I declare," said Jinny. 

" That's the proper spirit, my dears. 
I pities the pore beggars what haven't the 
spirit to join. They don't know what 
life is." 

They left him, dehghted at the honour 
conferred upon them, but at the same time 
depressed. The corn merchant's handy man 
from Suckton, of whom Jinny had hopes, 
was now a disappointing creature, and Kate 
Lucy, as she formed a mental picture of 
Albert Sowle, said with a sigh, "I do zo 
like sojers. They be such jolly vellers." 

And still the worship of Mr. Atkins 
increased, and our young men were furious. 
They sneered at Daniel, they recalled him 
as he was in the days before he had become 
a Queen's man, and laughed mirthlessly at 
his present appearance. " Iv there be 
anythen," said Jim Hoiley to Polly Eeddout, 
"that do make I veel like laughen meself 
zilly, it be the sight ov thik Dan in his 
sojer's clothes. Yancy 'em putten a red 
jacket on to he ; and he do zwagger about 
like a turkey-cock." 

Polly retorted hotly, " He be the zmartest 
veller I've zeen 'bout here vor a long time, 
I can tell 'ee. I do zo like to zee a man look 

Jim did not reply on the instant, but be 
was not meditating a soft answer. " You 
maids be all alike," he said ; " but I did 
think you had more zense, Polly. All 
becos he have a red jacket and do strut 
about, you be mad about en. He do zwagger 
as if thease place all belonged to en ; and 
what be he ? His vather be only a shepherd, 
and he be Zlow Dan Belloes. A sojer ! 
I wouldn' give two brass vardens vor all the 
sojers in Darset. Catch I been a sojer," 
and Jim laughed derisively. His pride was 
wounded and he meant to sting. 

Polly was not slow to follow. In fact, as 
she looked at her lover, and mentally com- 
pared him with Private Belloes, she was near 
despising him. "I know one thing," she 
said, with great distinctness, " that you'd 
have to zmarten up pretty considerable avoic 
they'd take 'ee in the Army." 

Jim was not quick at repartee, and tlie} 
walked some distance while he was preparing 



"He felt like a fool as they passed on and left him standing there.' 

his retort. " I z'pose," he said at last, with 
an irritating laugh, " that when the vair 
cpmes agen, we shall have to look sharp 
avter 'ee, or you'll be runnen away with the 
clown all becos he be dressed up. Iv they 
put a monkey in a sojer's jacket I z'pose 
you'd be a'most ready " 

" Everybody have told I what I should 
vind you to be," interrupted Polly, speaking 
mendaciously, and she flung herself round 
and left him. 

" You gwo to thik monkey in red," said 
Jim, wdiite with anger. 

" 111 gwo to a man," Polly shouted back. 

It w^as the first quarrel that had interrupted 
the delightful current of their courtship, and 
when Polly had gone Jim flung himself 
down on the grass in wrath and misery. 
" The zilly ways o' women ! " he muttered. 
" She can gwo after thik zilly monkey " ; 
but a minute later he added, " Next time 
I zee en 111 wring his neck vor en." 

He got up at last. "Very well," he said, 
speaking to a calf that was looking at him 
over a gate, " it be vinished ; iv she comes 
to I on her bended knees I shall tell she to 
gwo and talk to Dan Belloes. I did think 
she'd better zense." 



Jim made a circuit through the fields to 
liis home, but at the cross-roads there was 
standing a disconsolate group, including 
Albert Sowle, Tim Benns, Tom Thatcher, 
and Sammy Pablington. Jim felt inclined 
to sneak home, but they had seen him and 
he went up to them. To hide his wound 
Jim affected light raillery. " Hello, you 
vellers," he said, " whatever be you doen 
here, looken zo glum ? Thee looks, Bert, as 
if thee'd lost a ha'penny." 

An inarticulate growl answered him. 

" Why bisn't walken the missis round 
thease evenen, Bert ? " he went on. 

" Why hain't thee ? " asked Sowle, with a 

" Oh, she be ter'ble busy thease evenen, 
do 'ee zee," replied Jim. 

" Ees, she be," retorted - Sowle. " She 
passed we goen up along, and she be talken 
to Dan Belloes at thease very identical minit. 
Why don't 'ee 'list, Jim ? " 

Jim's pleasantry had recoiled on himself, 
and he said something profane as they 
laughed loudly. 

" x\nd why don't all ov 'ee ? " he cried 
savagely. " Zims to I your maids don't 
think much ov 'ee nowadays, now Captain 
Dan Belloes be to hwome." 

" No," said Tim Benns ; " did anybody 
ever zee such vooils as the maids be ? " 

Their jeers ceased at Benn's question, 
which was received with muttered approval ; 
each wounded heart was craving for the 
sympathy of others likewise suffering. 

•' Iv there was any then in the veller 
better 'n ord'nary," said Pablington, " one 
med understand the maids behaven in sich a 

" But there hain't," put in Albert, " there 
hain't. Iv you put a turnip on a vork and a 
bit ov red vlannel round, it'd be quite zo 
taken as thik wooden lump." 

" Maids," said Tim Benns, with the melan- 
choly of the experienced philosopher, " maids 
alius be vond ov vine clothes . It be woman- 
natur, and I don't think they can help it 
altogeder, though I did think Hester hain't 
like the rest." 

" You didn' think it any mwore than I 
did 'bout Polly," said Jim Hoiley, with a 
sigh. " I thought she the zensiblest maid 
that ever I zee. ' Looks hain't anythen,' I 
says to meself, ' it be zense I want.' Though 
she have got her looks, too." 

" And didn' I think zo 'bout Kate Lucy ? " 
asked Albert Sowle indignantly. " ' You've 
got carroty hair,' thinks I, ' but you hain't 
a vooil' " 

They remained moodily discussing ^^m 
Eternal Feminine until nearly nine o'clock, 
which is a very late hour in our village, where 
many of us rise at four and five o'clock. 
They separated, hoping, as Jim Hoiley said, 
that the " maids 'ould come to their zenses 
avore they were many days wolder." 

But the morrow brought no comfort. A 
mother here and there asked her daughter 
the meaning of such folly, but it was without 
effect ; on the contrary, there were three 
more who joined in the pursuit of Private 
Belloes, and some of the maidens were very 
candid with each other. " I never did zee 
the like," said Maud Combarrow to Jinny 
Peters and Harriet Kells ; " there be I don't 
know how many ov 'ee runnen avter pore 
Dan. It do make I veel ashamed ov my 
own sect to zee it." 

The two girls blushed guiltily, but Harriet 
replied spiritedly. " And how about your- 
self ?" she inquired shrilly; ''you hain't runnen 
avter en, I z'pose ? Oh, no ! Why, you was 
in Mrs. Belloes's avore ten thease marnen. 
You've no need to deny it, vor I zeen 'ee. 
You've been in and out a score ov times 
since Dan come hwome." 

It was Miss Combarrow's turn to blush, 
but she answered nevertheless with dignity, 
" I went in thease marnen to ask Mrs. 
Belloes iv she could lend mother her vlat 
irons vor " 

" What did she want irons vor to-day .? " 
interrupted Jinny Peters. " It hain't your 
ironen day. You alius iron Thursdays." 

"And you didn' bring 'em out, vor I 
zeen 'ee come back," added Harriet Kells 

Maud blushed still more,. but her reply was 
still dignified. " Mother — mother wanted 
they irons, but Mrs. Belloes wanted to use 
'em. And I should like 'ee to know that it 
be a different thing vor I, zeen as we be 
relations. Mother and Abram Belloes be 
second cousins, and, besides, me and Dan was 
alius very vriendly. I heard Mrs. Pollens 
zayen thease very marnen that it be a dis- 
grace to the parish to zee the way zome ov* 
the maids be behaven becos there be a sojer 
about. 'A nice tale he'll carry back 'bout 
we,' she zaid." 

" You can't say anythen," said Harriet 
Kells. "You med be twenty- virst cousins 
or zomethen ov the zort, but I know your 
mother alius looked down on they Belloeses. 
You'd like to zwagger about with Dan all to 
yourself, but he hain't such a gurt stupe. 
Gome on. Jinny," and Miss Combarrow was 
left to fume alone. 



Nevertheless, she had given an idea to one 
of them, and an honr or so later Miss Peters 
walked into Belloes' cottage. Her mother 
wondered if Mrs. Belloes had a bit of 
pennyroyal she conld let her have, as she 
thonght a sip or two of pennyroyal tea might 
do her good. Mrs. Belloes thonght she had, 
and Dan invited Jinny to go with him np 
the garden to look, and her strategy was 
rewarded with half an honr's tete-a-tete. 
Neither she nor Miss Combarrow could 
patent the idea, however, and in the next 
few days Mrs. Belloes had other callers. 
" I z'pose," she remarked to her neighbours, 
" that it be 'cos Dan be to hwome that the 
maids have taken to comen here ; I've had 
dree ov em thease avternoon. They do 
think my Dan be a zmart bwoy, I 'low." 
Mrs. Belloes had always been proud of her 
boy, but now she declared the village had 
never had his equal. 

The Brotherhood of the Disconsolate had 
recruits at the cross-roads that evening, and 
nine young fellows stood, hands in pockets. 

in gloomy dejection. What pen conld do 
justice to the tragic l)usiness ? The descrip- 
tion of how a third party comes between two 
loving hearts, and the woe that ensues, is 
sufficient theme for a long novel or Hve-act 
drama, but here were all the swains of a 
village suffering the terrible torture of those 
who, having tasted the wine of Love, have 
the cup dashed from their lips. Some who 
passed the cross-roads and knew the secret 
jeered, but the sympathetic reader who has 
loved will drop a tear. 

If any of them had hopes that the madness 
of the maidens had passed, they were dis- 
pelled by George Peters, the last arrival. 
" Thik gurt vooil," he said, " be down near 
the Post-office, grinnen like a ape, and there 
be I don't know how^ many zilly maids round, 

It was received in gloomy silence, save 
that Sam Pablington began to whistle 
" Sweet Belle Mahone." It sounded like a 

" Iv my maid be with en agen," said Jim 


' At the cross-roads there was standing a disconsolate group." 

2 B 



Hoiley, "I've done witti she. I won't be 
too hard, and I'll give she thease one more 

" Mother said at dinner-time," said Dick 
Challej, " that I be gwain clean off me veed. 
Dang I iv the maids be worth nt, but a 
veller can't help veelen it." 

"Just look yonder," said Benns in a tragic 
whisper, and they turned their heads to look. 
A party of seven, linked together, was coming 
down the road, Dan Belloes in the middle 
and three girls on either side. The girls' 
laughter made a merry chorus to Dan's 
facetiousness. Jim Hoiley noticed w4th an 
added pang that his Polly was next to the 

Dan turned a smiling face on the suffering 
brotherhood. " How-de-do, boys? " he cried, 
with a wink intended to show what a sad 
dog he was. " Don't you wdsh you was in 
my shoes ? " 

No one answered him, but there were 
many muttered curses that never reached his 
ears. To flaunt his ascendency in their faces 
in this manner was intolerable, insult added 
to mortal injury. 

" Well," said Jim Hoiley at last, with 
bitter emphasis, "I've done with she vor 

" Look zee," said Albert Sowle, w^ho was 
scowling like an Adelphi ruifian, and he 
pulled out of his pocket a tobacco-pouch in 
the form of a purse, with the initials " A. S." 
worked on it. " You all zee thik. And look 
here," and from his other pocket he took a 
paper package which, when unrolled, revealed 
a satin tie of a vivid red hue, slightly soiled 
and frayed. " She " — by which he meant 
Kate Lucy — "gave I thik pouch vor a 
Christmas present, and thik tie on my birth- 
day. Zome ov 'ee know I've weared thik 
tie reg'lar every Zunday. You'll never zee 
I wearen it agen. Iv she be in when I 
gwoes past the house I shall vling they two 
in the door, and . I shall tell she that I've 
done. I vallied thik tie, but I'd rather gwo 
to church with nothen on than wear it agen." 

" It be enough to make 'ee," said Benns, 
who was never in favour of violent methods ; 
"but I shouldn' iv I was you, Bert. I 
should zend it in a parcel." 

" I shall vling it in the house, I tell 'ee," 
said Bert fiercely. " I'll show she that it be 
dangerous to play with a man's veelens. I 
med have known there w^as no good in 
carroty hair." 

"I've done with my maid, too," said 
Thatcher ruefully. "I saw she thease 
avternoon as I was gwain liwome to tea, and 

you'd never believe, boys, what she said 
to I." 

" I'd believe anythen now," said George 

" I zaid to she — not speaken savage, but 
like I alius do — I zays, ' It be very voolish 
ov 'ee, my dear, to run avter thik gurt zinny 
all becos ov his red jacket. It do make 'ee 
look very voolish, my dear,' zays I. She did 
zay as how she should please herself, and 
I was only jealous ov a man that was 
zmarter'n I. I 'low that upzet I a goodish 
lump. ' He zmart ? ' I zays. ' I shouldn' 
like to be zo zmart as Zlow Dan.' And 
w^hat do 'ee think ? " — Tom's tone became 
tragical — " what do 'ee think she did zay to 
that ? " 

None of them would venture to guess. 

" She did zay, and it be her very words, 
mark 'ee, she did zay, zo uppish as you 
please, ' You'd better gwo and get your hair 
cut a bit sharter and they zilly whiskers 
shaved off. I do hate to zee a man with his 
hair like a hayrick and zilly whiskers down 
his vace.' That be what she zaid to I," and 
Thomas was almost tearful. " It hain't long 
ago she did zay she wished she'd got such a 
thick lot ov hair. It be all 'cos thik ass 
have got his head nearly shaved, as I told 

" I tell 'ee what I mean to do," said Dick 
Challey ; " I be gwain into Suckton one 
evenen, and I shall pick up with a maid 
there. There be zome very nice tins." 

" Ees," said Bert Sowle, " I propose avter 
thease wik that we all gwo to Suckton twice 
a wik. We should zoon vind a nice maid 

"We will," said Peters. "We'll show 
'em they hain't the only i^aids in the world." 

" I zay, bwoys," said Sam Pablington, 
" let we gwo down the vields and play leap- 
vrog or zummat. Iv they zee we hangen 
round like thease they'll think we cared. 
Yolks be thro wen off 'bout it. Yather made 
vun 'bout it at tea-time, and old Yickery as 
he passed I tried to be very vunny." 

The older men had indeed begun to jeer. 
They must be degenerate sort of youths, said 
they, for the maids to run away from them. 
Maids weren't like that when they were 

Private Belloes' head swelled when he 
found what a sensation he was making, and 
wh' n it was hinted to him that the furious 
lovers might offer battle, he boasted that he 
feared none of them. 

Mr. Sowle, even in the depths of misery, 
was a prudent young man, and he saw Mr. 



Tickerton on his 
way to the allot- 
ments before, with 
three friends look- 
ing on, he made 
his dramatic pro- 
test by throwing 
the presents in 
the garden - path. 
Afterwards, being 
Saturday evening, 
they walked into 
Snckton and critic- 
ally observed the 
unattached maids 
of the town. 

It was next day 
that matters 
came to a head. 
Sunday everywhere 
is the great day 
for the communion 
of lovers, but that 
day deserves to be 
known as Dismal 
Sunday. To aggra- 
vate their burden 
our young men 
could observe Pri- 
vate Belloes in the 
church gallery ex- 
changing nods and 
smiles with the 
maids. It was more 
than manly flesh 
and blood could 
stand, and after 

various desperate schemes had been discussed 
a deputation was appointed to wait on 
Mr. Belloes, in order to point out how wrong 
his conduct was, and to assure him that none 
of them were going to stand it any longer. 
With praiseworthy modesty each of them 
found weighty reasons why he sliould not be 
a member of the deputation, but, finally, Dick 
Challey and Sam Pablington that night had 
an interview with Dan near the churchyard. 

Sam PabKngton was spokesman. " We 
want to tell 'ee, look zee, in a vriendly way, 
and speaken vor all ov we " — Sam called 
over their names— "that we don't like your 
gwains-on with our maids. It have to be 
stopped. We 'low that p'raps you didn' 
know, but it hain't vair and honest. You 
can pick up with any maid that haven't a 
veller, but " 

Dan laughed derisively. " I shall walk 
out with any maid I want to," he said. " I 
pity the pore maids about here, for it be 

"Her strategy was rewarded with half an hour's tete-a-tete.'" 

evident they don't see a smart veller very 

'' Look zee, thee'st got to stop it," inter- 
posed Dick, whose temper was up, "or thee'U 
be made, I can tell 'ee." 

" Who by ?" asked Dan. 

" I, vor one," said Dick sturdily. 

" Do 'ee want to fight, then ? " 

" Ees, iv thee likes, and I'll give 'ee a gurt 

" Oh, we'll see," said the soldier, and with- 
out more ado they fell to blows. Dick was 
quite Dan's match physically, but his notion 
of boxing was quite elementary, and in a 
short time both his eyes were bunged up. 
" Any more of you as likes to try," said Dan, 
"can come on, and I'll oblige 'em the same." 

Three days later the fever was cured 
with almost miraculous suddenness. Private 
Belloes one afternoon went into Suckton to 



see a cousin, and tliey sat drinking in the 
" Lion " until Dan was fuddled enough to 
boast of his conquests over the feminine 
heart. The maids in our village, he said, 
were terrible fond of him, but he didn't care 
the dust on his boots for the whole boilin' of 
'em ; they were the stupidest, ugliest things 
he had come across. Give him the Belfast 
girls ; they was maids with looks and w^ays. 
And James Pusell, the Suckton grocer's man, 
who comes twice a week to our village, heard 
him, and as he is fond of gossip it is un- 
necessary to say what occurred on his next 
visit. News flies through the village as 
quickly and mysteriously as the Kaffir post, 
and — well — Private Daniel Belloes' reign 
was over. 

I believe that it has been remarked before 
that lovers have short memories. At any 
rate, in less than a week the lowering 
clouds had given place to sunshine, and I 
know for a positive fact that Jinny Peters 

and Maggie Debbs, to mention no others, 
expressed somewhat the same opinion as 
Polly Reddout. Said Polly to Jim Hoiley, 
" I don't think nothen ov sojers, and never 
did. I 'low they be zmartish in a way, but, 
law ! they be that stuck-up and conceited 
they do make I laugh " ; and Jim was not 
at all aghast at her audacity, but warmly 

If my observation is not at fault, our young 
men did endeavour for some time after 
Daniel's meteoric appearance to be a little 
smarter, and walked with straighter backs 
and a livelier step. It is a pity that the 
stimulus did not last longer, for I have 
always maintained that a drill-sergeant with 
autocratic powers ought to be maintained in 
every village at the public expense. 

Perhaps it would be as well to mention 
that even before Private Belloes had left the 
village Albert Sowle was again wearing his 
red tie on Sundays. 

"where streams flow softly." 
From a photograph by the Woodbury Permanent Photographic Co. 



" My horse has reasoniug 

^'^x^^^r^^^r'^ ' P*^^^®''^> ^ ^^^'^ you." 

^^^$^^^^%^ \ "In what respect particularly ? " 

"Well, instead of shying at 
that motor-car he edged up to it 
and kicked it." 

Sunday School Teacher: 
Now, can any of you tell me the 
names of the three great feasts of 
the Jews ? 

Small Boy : Please, ma'am, 
breakfast, dinner, and tea. 

Babbles: That man Jones is 
telling any amount of lies about 
you round the town. 

GrRABBLES : I don't mind that, 
so long as he doesn't tell the 

- - c-^-.^ 


Very Grown-up Young Man : Don't you think your husband will 
be jealous if I stay talking to you so long ? 

Philosophic Wife : No. Dear old Jack ! He never thinks of me 
when he's got his golf-coat on. 

Customer : What have you in 
the shape of oranges? 

Storekeeper : Well, madam, 
we have tennis balls. 

Judge : Have you anything to say before the 
Court passes sentence ? 

Prisoner: Well, all I got to say is, I hope 
you'll consider the extreme youth of my lawyer, 
and let me off easy. 

An old farmer, who was in the habit of eating 
what was set before him, asking no questions, was 
sampling a big restaurant on his first visit to 
London. The waiter gave him the menu card, 
and explained that it was the list of dishes served 
for dinner that day. Accordingly the old country- 
man began at the top of the bill, of fare, and 
ordered each thing in turn until he had covered 
about one-third of it. The pros^^ect of what was 
still before him was too overpowering, yet there were 
some things at the end that he wanted to try. He 
called the waiter, and, confidentially marking off 
the spaces on the card with his index finger, said, 
" Look here, Pvc et from thar to tliar. Can I skip 
from that to here and eat on to the bottom ? " 

One time I fixed my work all up. There wa'n't no 

chores to do. « , ,. . ^, . ^ 

Says 1, '*ril jes' enjoy a day of loafm' throusrh and 

through. ^ . ^ , ^,.5 

I won't git up no picnics nor do any sech fool thing, 
A-botherin' with the victuals an' a-pushin' of the 

I won't do any readin', 'cause a book your mind will 

An' when you're thinkin' thoughts, of course, you 

can't be quite at rest. 
I'll have the time my dreamin' has so long and 

fondly prized, ^ ^,^, ,s ji.» 

An' revel in the sweetness of ambition realised I 
So, both hands in my pockets, I walked an viewed 

the skv, 
An' then sat down a-waitin' while the lazy hours 

An'Th"e*n f 'thought I'd lose all earthly cares in 

slumber deep, ,,^ , tA^r* 

An' that's the first time in my life I ever couldn t 

I gralfbed an axe an' jumped right in, fur fair, 

a-choppin* wood, 
To ease my nerves. An' nothin' ever done me so 

An'^^S'^rve^'j'^s' concluded, as I think it o'er anew, 
That there ain't much fun in loafin'— ceptin when 
there's work to do. __ Washington Star. 




Schoolmaster: Don't you know how to ypell ? 

Phonetic Boy : Oh, yes, I know how to spell 
right enough ; but the men who wrote the diction- 
aries don't seem to. 

Amiable Plutocrat : But riches do not bring 

Unamiable Pauper: But 1 ain't looking for 
happiness. I should be quite satisfied with com- 

Mrs. Gasser: Then is it true that messages 
sent by wireless telegraphy pass right through the 
air we breatho ? 

Mr. Gr. : Yes, that's quite correct. 

Mrs. G. : Then what happens if a man who has 
just sent off a telegram swallows his words on his 
way home again ? 

Mother (sternly) : Just look at your clothes ! 
It's not the slightest use to try to keep you clean 1 

Tommy (eagerly) : Then, aren't you going to try 
any more? 

Youthful Inquirer : Pa, what's a lineal des- 
cendant ? 

Pa : He is generally someone who is trying to 
get through the world on a reputation somebody 
made before he was born. 

" Medicine," said the little girl, " is something 
that makes you be careful not to catch cold 

! v^^ 

\J I ^^^iU f Kl 



Curate (to wife of Reservist who has gone to the front) : Don't give way so, my good woman. In all 
probability your husband will come back safe and sound. 

Reservist's Wife : Oh, it ain't 'im I'm troubled for ; it's them pore Boers ! I know wot a terror Hill is 
when 'e starts ! 

" I SEE by the news])apers," remarked Reeder, 
" that the miners in the Klondike are sending out 
appeals for wives." 

" Is that so ? " ejaculated Hennypeck, in an eager 
whisper. " Then I'm sure they can have mine." 

Wife : The price of the garden hose was thirty 
shillings, but I got a discount, so it only cost me 

Husband : But you could have got the same 
thing at the Stores for a guinea 1 

Wife : Possibly so ; but then they wouldn't 
have taken anything off, you know. 

" You are not opaque, are you ? " said the sar- 
castic man to another who was standing in front 
of him at the theatre. 

" Faith, and I'm not," was the unperturbed reply. 
** My name is O'Brien." 

It is curious how Nature deals in compensations. 
For instance, the more a woman is ahead of her 
times, the more her gowns are behind them. 



-• 4*' 

V * 


^00 ©ID a J3irD» 

Genial Yachtsman : Hullo, Dicky ! just the man I want ! Come for a sail in my yacht ? 
Sceptical Dick : No, thanks, dear boy ! Awfully sorry, but haven't got my bathing suit with me. 




When noiseless night, with starry eyes 

And cool, clear glance, has put to rout 
The restless spectres that arise 

While busy day is yet about; 
Then through my waking fancy gleams 

A vision I will ne'er resign — 
The magic maiden of my dreams, 

The girl who never will be mine. 

You smile at me and shake your head, 

You deem me "sentimental boy," 
And hint when future years have fled 

Such fantasies will lose their Joy. 
Nigh twenty years have come and gone 

5ince manhood thrilled me with its sign 
Yet constantly she becks me on— 

The girl who never will be mine. 

Nay, thinly her not another's bride. 

This peerless princess of the night, 
And, moralising, start to chide, 

Or glibly talk of wrong and right. 
I tell you nay— mine eyes alone 

In hers have seen the love-light shine, 
There— on Imagination's throne! 

The girl who never will be mine. 

All day I watch with wistful gaze 

The surging throngs that crowd the street. 
As if, expecting in the maze 

At last my dear dream-friend to meet. 
But though grim failure flout my zeal. 

No one shall desecrate the shrine, 
Or drive from me my heart's Ideal— 

The girl who never will be mine I 

Arthur Rickett. 


Cyclist : Where does this road lead to ? 

KusTic : Ef yer go that way it leads to my 'ome, an' ef yer go t'other way it 
goes straight on. 

1bl0 ffavoutlte ffare. 

From the Picture by J. Ayton Symington. 






IN a previous issue of the 
Windsor Magazine, an 
article, entitled, " Photo- 
graphy as a Royal Hobby," 
testified by text and picture to 
the present-day popularity in the 
charmed circle of Royalty of 
what has been curtly termed 
"the camera craze." The 
present paper is intended to 
amplify this interesting subject 
and to set forth some further 
photographic exploits of well- 
known people. 

Society has been somewhat 
discourteously compared with a 
spoilt child in the selection of 
its playthings — or fads, as tlie 
society journals have it ; what 
is new one day is stale and old- 
fashioned the next. Hence, in 
discussing most aristocratic 
hobbies, one is constrained to 
be at once an opportunist and a 
cautious critic ; the fickle wheel 
of pleasure moves so rapidly, 
yet so erratically : tempora 
mutant ur, nos et mufamnr in 
illis. But in photography, 
perhaps, the matter is different. This is virtually a scientific pursuit. Society has fallen 
deeply m love with it, of that there can be little doubt. The principal reason for this 
mcreasmg affection for a fascinating pastime is not far to seek ; every film or plate that is 
properly exposed leaves a definite and tangible result behind it, and a product, too, which is 
aided by art and by actual personal handicraft, and which is not represented in pounds, 
shiUings, and pence. Amateur photography, then, from its personal, artistic, and domestic 
character, has become a recognised diversion or pursuit with the leisured classes. What is 
the more noticeable is the fact that at present no signs of a decline in popularity are 
apparent on the horizon : and just as a leisured man's friends regard him as "unfinished " 
till he has travelled at least once round the globe, so does that man consider himself 
inadequately equipped for the journey if his " traps " do not include a camera. 

It is really a matter for amazement how the craze for taking one's own pictures has 
grown. And not only taking them in the sense of simply exposing the sensitised film 
to the deft agency of light, but in the far more practical and irksome business of developing, 

Septembeh, 1900. 303 2 C 2 THE DUCHESS OF YORK AT CANNES. 
From a photograph by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 



From a photograph by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 

printing, and toning, after you have pressed 
the button. When " snapshooting " first 
entered the field, society was loth to soil its 
hands in a dark-room with " beastly chemi- 
cals " ; all it did was to " take " the photo 
and then despatch the plate to a professional 
finisher, rejoicing in its own prowess when 
the print came back spick and span from 
the toning bath. But that was only a 
temporary passion. An insatiable desire to 
find out how the wheels went round took 
possession of the more scientifically inclined 

C^ Jf.7ii /Stir 

minds ; and now, what do we find ? Artificial, 
self-imposed honour .? Certainly not. Every 
real enthusiast revels in a dark-room and all 
the approved stock-in-trade and paraphernalia 
of a recognised artist. 

Lady Gertrude Molyneux, the daughter of 
the fourth Earl of Sefton, has taken some 



really excellent pic- 
tures, which, since 
they include an in- 
teresting portrait of 
H.R.H. the Duchess 
of York, are here 
given the place of 
honour. They 
might well, as our 
illustrations show, 
vie with any of the 
best stereoscopic 
work produced by 
London experts. 
Lady Gertrude, who 
has a commodious 
workshop in the 
lower regions of 
Hans House, Hans 
Street, is a past- 
mistress in artistic 
effect. A practical 
adept as w^ell as a 
keen enthusiast, she has liandled a camera 
since 1882 ; and from that time till the 

Frovi a photograph by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 

present she has put together a portfolio of 
portraits and views exceedingly interesting to 

From a photograph by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 



From a photograph by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 

inspect. Not only does she print and develop 
her own photographs, but she makes her own 
enlargements — a complicated process usually 
relegated by the amateur to the skilled 

The studies of 
the late Arch- 
bishop of Canter- 
bury and of Lord 
Wantage, Y.C., 
are perhaps her 
best efforts in 
full - length por- 
traiture. Both 
are admirable like- 
nesses —especially 
the former, which 
was taken in April, 
1895, during the 
last visit but one 
which Dr. Benson 
paid to the charm- 
ing Florentine 
residence of Lady 
Crawford, the 
Yilla Palmieri, 
near FJorence. 
The Archbishop 
described the Villa 
as " most fresh 

and beautiful, with its glorious views and 
brilliant flowers, hyacinths, tulips, magnolia, 
Judas trees, etc., but for greenness scarcely so 
forward as Lambeth Garden. " Here it was 

that the late Primate found a haven of peace 
where he might recoup his fallen energies 
after months of anxious toil ; and from here 
it was that, accompanied by Mrs. Benson, he 

would set out to 
visit, not once, 
but often, the 
many beautiful 
and historic 
churches and 
pictures of which 
he was so fond. 
Lady Gertrude 
Molyneux, a 
valued friend, 
is mentioned in 
the Archbishop's 
diary; it was with 
her that he visited 
for the second 
time the Lauren- 
tian Library, re- 
marking that it 
impressed him 
with its beauty 
and magnificence. 
In Dr. Benson's 
own words we get 
a luminous de- 
scription of some 
of its treasures : " Bowed before the Pan- 
dects, and adored the Codex Amiatorius 
again. If everything else were buried, this 
is enough to shake us into some understanding 

F7'om a photograph by Lady Gertrude Molyneux. 




of what Anglo- 
Saxons were. 
Made love to 
the Sophocles 
and Aeschylus, 
the Yirgil, 
the Tacitus, 
B e n V e n u t o 
Cellini's auto- 
graphs. Held 
our breath 
over the choir 
books and 
other great 
sights. We 
were most 
kindly accom- ' 
panied by the 
Prefetto him- 
self, Barone 
P odesta — a 
Huxley to see to." While at Florence for the 
last time, that is, a year later — he died at 
Hawarden six months after — Dr. Benson 
divided his time between revising and 
correcting the proof-sheets of his " Cyprian " 

From a photograph I 

and revisiting 
the unsurpass- 
able beauties 
of the Italian 
Eiviera. In 
Florence it was 
that the Arch- 
bishop revised 
and re - wrote 
his famous 
letter to Lord 
Halifax: re- 
garding the 
Corporate Re- 
union of the 
Church wit-h 
that of Rome, 
concern ing 
w h i c h li i 8 
Grace had, a 
few days be- 
fore, talked 
with Lord Halifax at the Villa Palmieri. It 
is interesting to notice that his hostess. 
Lady Crawford, was inclined strongly 
to favour Lord Halifax, though she 
admitted that he minimised the difficulties 

f Lord Battersea. 

From, a photograph by Lord Battersea. 

Frmn a photograph by Lord Battersea. 



Prom a photograph hy the 


Earl of Ikxrtmotfth . 

Oil his own side towards the 

The fnll-length 
portrait of H.E.IT. 
the Duchess of 
York, taken at 
Cannes eiglit years 
ago, recalls tlie 
pathetic event o\\ 
the death of the 
Duke of Clarence, 
to whom Princess 
May had been so 
lately affianced. It 
will be seen that 
the Duchess is in 
monrning for the 
late Prince. Lady 
ertrude Molyneux 
is a persona grata 
at Court, and slie 
has repeatedly had 
the honour of 
photographing, in 
m a u y of t h e 
European capitals, 
royal groups and 
royal individuals. 
The same artist's 


very distinct photograph on page 865 
represents the country seat of the 
Earl of Haddington, Tyninghame, 
Prestonkirk ; and that pretty little 
picture which Lady Gertrude has 
quaintly termed " Tlie Children of 
the Tower I^odge " depicts the two 
winsome daughters of the lodge- 
keeper attached to Abbeystead, Lord 
Sef ton's beautiful domain at Lan- 
caster. The liandsome features of 
liord Wantage, given to the camera 
in 1896 in the drawing-room of his 
own house at Wantage, Berks, recall 
tlie most famous of the many 
interesting facts connected witli this 
\'eteran soldier's career -his valour 
in the (Crimean campaign, crowned 
by the presentation of the Victoria 
Cross for conspicuous gallantry at 
Alma and Inkermann ; his untiring 
zeal in promoting the welfare of 
recruits in the Army ; and his humane 
and indefatigable work as chairman 
of the Englisli Red Cross Society. 

If photography be her most ab- 
sorbing hobby, Lady Gertrude Moly- 
neux has several others. She is an 
avid antiquarian, and possesses a by 
no means insignificant collection of 
Florentine sculptures and old Biblical studies 
— in her photographic collection, by the way, 

From a photograph hy the Earl of Dartmouth. 



is a first-class copy 
of the fly-leaf of 
the Bible beloiiging 
to Charles I. Lady 
Gertrude is, more- 
over, an adept 
ivory-turner ; at 
Hans House, a 
workshop, replete 
with lathe and 
every modern tool, 
and adorned with 
many and various 
fruits of labour, tells 
of delicate turning 
in ivory, wood, and 
brass. She has re- 
cently turned her 
attention to the 
fascinating study of 
the E^ntgen Rays, 
and 1 was privi- 
leged to see several 
excellent repro- 
d notions by X 

To find Lord 
Battersea an expert 

From a photograph by the Karl of Dartmovih. 

at photography is not 
likely to provoke^ surprise, for he is proficient 


in so many branches of science and is a 
lover of art in all its forms. The once 

Prom a photograph by the Earl of Dartmouth. 




From a photograph by the Earl of Dartmouth. 

Mr. Cyril Flower, M.P., who had the enviable 
reputation of being the handsomest man in 
the House of Commons, who married a 
Rothschild, and who is one of the most 
popular Liberal peers of the day, has travelled 
seldom of late without a kodak. His collec- 
tion of snapshots, enlargements of some of 
which have won 
him prizes and 
diplomas in Lon- 
don and Vienna, is 
one of the best I 
liad the pleasure of 
examining. Lord 
Battersea, W'ho, by 
the way, won the 
House of Commons' 
Steeplechase in 
1889, is an art 
connoisseur of con- 
siderable fame. At 
his splendid house 
opposite the Marble 
Arch he possesses 
many valuable 
paintings, includ- 
ing the "Annunci- 
ation," of Burne- 
Jones, an original 
"Madonna and 
Child," by Botti- 
celli, and several 
noted masterpieces 
in portraiture by 

Rubens, Moroni, 
Whistler, and 
Morretti. He is a 
keen devotee of 
yachting, hunting, 
botany, and gar- 
dening, and has 
" done " Europe as 
have few other 
men of his age. 

He succeeded, 
when at Athens, 
in taking an excel- 
lent photo of the 
famous Erec- 
theum, the ancient 
Ionic te m p 1 e 
which faces the 
still larger Par- 
thenon. In an- 
cient times part 
of the Erectheum 
was the temple of 
Pallas Athene, 
which contained 
the wooden image of the goddess and formed 
the centre of her worship ; but this suffered 
from fire in the Persian war. It was reserved 
for Pericles to commence the restoration of 
so sacred a building, which in its present 
form consists of a huge cellar extending 
from east to west, in which, tradition says. 


From a photograph by the Eai^l of Dartmouth 



*V -"i. i'^t" 


C a r t li a g i 11 i a ii 
soldier and was 
taken at Carthage 
in a very high 
wind. Lord Bat- 
tersea, when taking 
this photograph, 
was facing the well- 
known college 
founded by 
Cardinal Langerie. 
That wonderful 
Grecian chasm, the 
A-^ale of Tempe, 
Thessaly, has re- 
ceived very effec- 
tive pictorial treat- 
ment at the hands 
of Lord Ikittersea. 
Tin's place is one of 

AT Wor.lUN Ar.HKV. 

Vj r e c t h e u s w a s 
iMiried. Lord l^at- 
tersea's photograi)h 
was shown in an 
enlarged form at 
the great Inter- 
national Exhibition 
at the New (Jallery 
and o])tained a first 
])rize. His other 
efforts which a])pear 
in thisardcle depict 
types of Eastern 
soldiers— the one in 
the doorway was 
taken in (Ireece and 
shows a messenger 
from the I^rince of 
Montenegro to 
Lord Battersea ; the 
other represents a 


Three photographs 


hy the Duchess of Bedford. 



the rural delights of the trav- 
eller. It possesses nearly four 
and a half miles of luxuriant 
vegetation with wooded glades, 
at intervals opening out at the 
foot of the cliffs. A broad, 
winding river adds its effect to 
the picture, and towards the 
middle of the pass, where the 
rocks are highest, the precipices 
in the direction of Oljmpus fall 
so steeply as to bar the passage 
on that side, while the rocks on 
the Ossan side rise in many 
places 1,500 feet from the 
valley. The ruins of a number 
of castles are visible. These 
were doubtless built by the 
Greeks to defend the vale from 
invasion. It was by this route 
that Julius Ca3sar arrived be- 
fore the battle of Pharsalia. 

Another versatile photo- 
grapher is the Earl of Dart- 
mouth. A glance at the titles 
of his specimens will show 
their here - there - and - every - 
where locale. The beautiful 
picture Lord Dartmouth took 
in Corsica, of the Ponte Leula, is one of 
many picturesque landscapes reminiscent of 

JUNE 23, 1899. 
From a photograph hy Lady Fender. 



AT KIEL, JUNE 23, 1899. 
From a photograph hy Sir James Pender, Bart. 

travel in foreign climes. We also get a 
very distinct view of the eastern end of 
St. George's Chapel at Royal 
Windsor, in which so many 
memorable services have been 
held ; a corner of the Bishop 
of Lichfield's garden, showing 
the central tower (280 feet 
high) and the two western 
towers (each 103 feet in height) 
of Lichfield Cathedra], which 
was probably constructed on 
the site of the old Norman 
church, at the beginning of 
the thirteenth century ; and 
two well - defined snapshots 
taken in Venice and repro- 
ducing the famous Piazza S. 
Marco, flagged with marble 
and bounded on three sides 
by the arcaded palaces of the 
Procurators. Lord Dartmouth 
is a stauncli admirer of watery 
Venice, with its vaporous sea- 
mists, its horizon of waves and 
tlie distant Euganean hills, its 
marble churclies and palaces 
glorified by the genius of 
Pisano, San so vino, Titian, and 
Veronese. Asjain, it was left 

DisTiyarrsHHi) dfaothhs of the (WMKua. 


for tlio soiue- 
tiinc Coiiser- 
viitivo Whi]) 
ill the House 
of Commons, 
and tlie owner 
of lie a r 1 y 
20,000 acres, 
to secure the 
only plioto- 
graph of Cor- 
inth Canal 
taken within 
the steep walls 
which form 
it. Corinth 
Canal has had 
a remarkable 
history. It 
was projected 
by Alexander 
the Great, re- 


solved on by 
Julius Caesar, 
a n d c ni - 
menced by 
Xero, the 
traces of 
whose nn- 
tinished work 
still remain a 
few hundred 
yards from 
the Corinth- 
ian (lulf. 
Four miles 
long, costing 
about one and 
a half mil- 
lions, and 
e V entually 
through in 
1882, the 

•(►\VIN(r IHK '• nilMI.K" TO THE LINE, KIEL. 

¥::y- 0^I^'mf'^'^^:^ ^! ^m M^^^^m^^^^^MM 

Three, photographs by Sir James Pender^ Bart. 



From a photograph by Sir James Pender^ Bart. 

Canal offers a valuable short cut between 
several of the ports of the Mediterranean 
and the Black Sea. The 
magnitude of the engineering y / ; 

operations may be grasped \\^ 

when it is stated that the 
central portion traverses a cut- 
ting in rock of which the 
maximum depth is 285 feet. 

Zoology is the favourite sul)- 
ject upon which the Duchess 
of Bedford expends her photo- 
graphic zeal. Her Grace's 
ruling hobby is the study and 
care of animals ; and when 
she took to photography, with 
such excellent results as are 
depicted in these pages, it was 
little wonder that her albums 
included pictures of all sorts 
and conditions of four-footed 
beasts and domestic pets, taken 
in all parts of the world. But 
it is at Woburn Abbey, where 
the Duchess has a zoological 
collection, the envy of many 
and the source of never-faihng 
interest to her numerous guests, 
that dumb " sitters " find the 
readiest welcome. Every 

meml)er of the Duchess of 
Bed f ord 's pr i vate men ager i e 
lias, at one time or another, 
had the honour of being 
photographed by its devoted 
owner, who also extends to 
her sitters the favour of 
" copyrighting " every print 
that the negative produces. 
" Goblin," the famous Siamese 
cat, which presents such an 
immaculate appearance on its 
cushioned pedestal that one 
is forgiven for assuming that 
it had been asked to "look 
pleasant," is a great favourite 
in the Woburn household — as, 
indeed, are all things con- 
nected with the East. It is 
only a few years since the 
Duchess, then the gifted and 
versatile daughter of Arch- 
deacon Tribe, of Lahore, spent 
six years in India, prosecuting 
her studies in natural history 
and zoology, while at the 
same time she became an 
expert horsewoman, a deft 
angler, and a daring shot. It 
was only natural, then, that on her marriage 
with a great landowner who was also devoted 



From a photograph by Sir James Pender^ Bart. 


to an i nulls she 
should improvise at 
lier country seat a 
private wild-beast 
show, where many 
of the animals she 
had known person- 
ally in their 
far-away homes 
should find still 
more comfortable 
quarters. With her 
own hands the 
Duchess frequently 
tends to the wants 
of her various 
charges, and with 
her own camera her 
Grace obtains in- 
stantaneous por- 
traits — which are 
usually enlarged to 
7 in. by 5 in. — to 
perpetuate their 
memories when 
death or decay has 


From a photograph by Sir Thomas Bazley, Bart. 

From a photograph taken hy Her Royal Highness. 



reiiitncd tliem. Fearless and trained 
ill the useful methods of approaching 
semi- wild animals, tlie Duchess of 
Bedford will venture nearer than 
anyone on her vast estate to the 
members of her three hundred. The 
admirable picture she has secured of 
the American bison, which looks for 
all tlie world as if it were solilo- 
quising on its native heath, was 
taken scarcelj ten yards from the 

We now turn to the pictorial work 
accomplished by Sir James Pender, 
M.P., the distinguished son of a 
w^orthy father. Loving the sea, and 
a yachtsman of well-known ability and 
recognised position, Sir James has 
"snapped" chiefly on water. The 
result is instructive as well as enter- 
taining. Most of his snapshots pro- 
duced in these pages were taken by 
Sir James Pender in the June of 
last year, when, accompanied by Lady 
Pender, he took his beautiful and 
fast-running Flormda to Kiel. Here Sir 
James secured many excellent photos, in- 
cluding several realistic views of the race for 
the Emperor's Cup from Dover to Heligoland. 
Kiel, the most important naval haibour of 

':.'V4 ^^i/:v- 


From a photograph by Sir Thomas Bazlcy, Bart. 


From a 2)hotograph by Sir Thomas Hazley, Hirt. 

Germany, and tbe station of the (lerman 
Baltic Fleet, is the recognised centre of 
German yachting ; all the keenest English 
yachtsmen go there for the season, whicli 
loses nothing by offering fine sea-bathing 
and very picturesque scenery. Its 
charms may be said to be manifold ; 
';v. one might well spend a whole day 

inspecting (at a distance) the strong 
fortifications by which the harbour 
at Kiel is guarded, or at the Imperial 
dockyards, where increased activity 
is now the order of the day. 

Last, but by no means least in 
this series, comes Sir Thomas Baz!ey, 
who may be said to be the doyen of 
them all. Sir Thomas is at once 
an artist who understands each 
su])ject he portrays, and a travel- 
ler possessed of a compreliensive 
knowledge of its history and its 
associations. Probably no man — 
and certainly no woman-— has accom- 
plished in his lifetime so much as 
this enthusiastic veteran in the fields 
of amateur Continental photograpliy ; 
and he can consequently speak with 
weight and authority on t'lis matter. 
Here is what Sir Thomas cour- 
teously wrote me from his house 
at liournemouth Wesb : " Cautious 
have often been givei% and dis- 
regarded, against unauthorised pho- 
tography in foreign countries. Trans- 


giession is so tciiiptiiig, and so easy, 
and the regulations in different places 
are so unequal. \\\ many, as Cannes, 
Naples, Messina, Malta, etc., the 
camera may be used with impunity, 
except in the vicinity of actual forti- 
fications ; and the same in Algiers 
itself; but in other parts of that 
.French colony the pursuit is hazard- 
ous. At Philippeville, one of my 
party, innocently taking snapshots, 
was followed by a detective, and 
finally apprehended, only escaping 
serious inconvenience by an appeal 
to the British Consul." 

Very entertaining is this baronet's 
photographic scrap-book. All his 
specimens are first-class reproduc- 
tions, and each is a reminder of 
some interesting event in history, 
commercial progress, or the lives of 
the illustrious dead. 

In Cannes, two years ago. Sir 
Thomas Bazley secured the two pic- 
turesque local photos reproduced. It 
was then a Cannes with the harbour 

From a photograph by Sir Thomas Bazley, Bart. 





From a photograph by Sir Thomas BazUy, 


singularly empty at a fashionable 
time of the year— a fact wliich 
was probably due to the "war 
scare " arising from the Fashoda 
incident, which somewhat fool- 
ishly prevented many tourists, 
both by land and sea, from 
visiting the Eiviera. The statue 
of I^ord Brougham, the dis- 
coverer of Cannes aS a winter 
resort, is well placed and provides 
a satisfactory picture. So does 
the Chateau Thorenc, Lord Ren- 
ders villa, where Mr. Gladstone 
so frequently stayed. Its archi- 
tecture is imposing, and the 
position and surrounding gar- 
dens magnificent ; its masonry, 
though by no means of recent 
erection, is as bright and as 
clean as when freshly tooled. 

From Cannes let us go to 
Syracuse. Coasting above Sicily, 
one may enjoy a fine view of 
snow-capped Etna in favourable 
weather, at too great a distance, 
however, for successful photo- 
graphy. Syracuse is deeply 
2 D 


interesting, witli its 
F o u n t a i n o f 
Arethusa, ancient 
temples, narrow 
streets, and quaint 
shops, the Ear of 
Dionysius, and the 
ruins of a Greek 
theatre and Eoman 
amphitheatre. The 
ruins of EpipolaB 
are a few miles dis- 
tant, and include 
the fortress of 
Eurjalus, with its 
deep steps and rock- 
hewn passages. On 
the summit, where 
some of the party 
stand, a magnificent 
panorama is ob- 
tained, including 
snowy Etna and a 
long range of plain 
to the north, where 
many an ancient 
battle was fought, 

besides the great harbour and Syracuse itself. 
A unique picture is that which depicts the 
famous suspension ferry at Bizerta. Half 
a day's sail from Tunis, Bizerta is a Moorish 
and Arab settlement, whose chief feature is 
an inland lake, in which it is said all the 
warships of the world could find anchorage 
simultaneously. A wide canal forms the 
entrance from the Mediterranean, and is 
spanned by a suspension ferry which was 
erected at great cost. The horizontal girders 


From a phatograph by Sir Thomas Bazlei/, Bart. 

are high enough to permit the most stately 
ship to pass beneath them ; but the steam 
engine which at that great elevation propels 
the traversing car is deficient in power, and 
in strong winds is often unable to complete 
the transit. The inhabitants, by the way, 
who are both black and dusky, decidedly 
object to being photographed. Probably 
they suspect the camera lens to be an 
impersonation of "the evil eye." 

A. Wallis Myers. 

From a photograph Inj Sir Jame'^ Fender, Bart. 



Illustrated hy Harold Copping, 

aa No. ly.— A last resort. 

HAT the 

should be 
ill and ab- 
sent from 
his classes 
from time 
to time 
was quite 
in the 
order of 
things, be- 
cause he was a scholar and absent-minded 
to a degree — going to bed in the morning, 
and being got out of bed in rather less than 
time for his work ; eating when it occurred 
to him, but preferring, on the whole, not to 
eat at all ; wearing very much the same 
clothes summer and winter, and if he added 
a heavy top-coat, more likely putting it on 
in the height of summer and going without 
it when there were ten degrees of frost. It 
was not for his scholarship, but for his 
peculiarities, that the school loved him ; not 
because he edited a " Caesar " and compiled 
a set of Latin exercises, for which perfectly 
unnecessary and disgusting labours the school 
hated him, but because he used to arrive at 
ten minutes past nine, and his form was able 
to jeer at Bulldog's boys as they hastened 
into fcheir class-room with much discretion at 
one minute before the hour. Because he 
used to be so much taken up with a happy 
phrase in Horace that he would forget the 
presence of his class, and walk up and down 
before the fireplace, chortling aloud ; and 
because sometimes he was so hoarse that he 
could only communicate with the class by 
signs, which they unanimously misunder- 
stood. Because he would sometimes be 
absent for a whole week, and his form was 
thrown in with another, with the result of 
much enjoyable friction and an almost 
perfect neglect of work. He was respected 
and never was annoyed, not even by ruffians 

* Copyright, 1000, by John Watson, in the United 
States of America. 

like Howieson, because everyone knew that 
the Rector was an honourable gentleman, 
with all his eccentric ways, and the Mvirtown 
Advertiser had a leader every spring on the 
achievements of his scholars. Edinburgh 
professors who came to examine the school 
used to fill up their speeches on the prize-day 
with graceful compliments to the Rector, 
supported by classical quotations, during 
which the boys cheered rapturously and the 
Rector looked as if he were going to be 
hung. He was one of the recognised glories 
of Muirtown, and was freely referred to at 
municipal banquets by bailies whose hearts 
had grown merry within them drinking the 
Queen's health, and was associated in the 
peroration to the toast of " the Fair City " 
with the North Meadow and the Fair Maid, 
and the River Tay and the County Gaol. 

Bulldog was of another breed. Whatever 
may have been his negligences of dress and 
occupation in private life — and on this sub- 
ject Nestie and Spiug told fearful lies — he 
exhibited the most exasperating regularity in 
pubhc, from his copper-plate handwriting to 
his speckless dress, but especially by an in- 
human and absolutely sinful punctuality. 
No one with a heart within him and some 
regard to the comfort of his fellow creatures, 
especially boys, had any right to observe 
times and seasons with such exactness. 
During all our time, except on the one great 
occasion I wish to record, he w^as never 
known to be ill, not even with a cold ; and 
it was said that he never had been for a day 
off duty, even in the generation before us. 
His erect, spare frame, without an ounce of 
superfluous flesh, seemed impervious to 
disease, and there was a feeling in the 
background of our minds that for any 
illness to have attacked Bulldog would have 
been an act of impertinence which he would 
have known how to deal with. It was 
firmly believed that for the last fifty years— 
and some said eighty, but that was poetry 
■—Bulldog had entered his class-room every 
morning, except on Saturdays, Sundays, and 
holidays, at 8.50, and was ready to begin 



work at the stroke of nine. There was a 
pleasant story that in the days of onr fathers 
there had been such a fall of snow and so 
fierce a wind that the bridge had been 
drifted up, and no one could cross that 
morning from the other side. The boys 
from the south side of the town had brought 
news of the drift to the school, and the 
earlier arrivals, who had come in hope of a 
snow-fight, were so mightily taken with the 
news that they hurried to the Muirtown end 
of the bridge to look at the drift, and danced 
with jov at the thought that on the other 

of it they opened the door of the mathematical 
class-room, merely to see how it looked when 
Bulldog was not there, and found that 
estimable teacher at his desk, waiting to 
receive them with bland courtesy. Some 
said that he had stayed in Muirtown all 
night, anticipating that drift, others that he 
had climbed over it in the early morning, 
before Muirtown was awake ; but it was 
found out afterwards that he had induced 
old Duncan Rorison, the salmon fisher, to 
ferry him across the flooded river, that it 
took them an hour to reach the Muirtown 

' A dozen stories were afloat by afternoon." 

side Bulldog was standing, for once helpless 
and dismayed. Spiug's father, true ancestor 
of such a son, had shouted across the 
drift invitations for Bulldog to come over, 
secure in the fact that he could not be seen 
across its height, and in the hope that Bull- 
dog would not know his voice. When they 
were weary celebrating the event, and after 
a pleasant encounter with a hastily organised 
regiment of message boys, the eager scholars 
sauntered along to the school, skirmishing as 
they went, just to be ready for the midday 
fight with the " Pennies." For the pure joy 

side, and that they had both been nearly 
drowned in the adventure. 

" Come in, my boys," was all that he said. 
" Ye're a httle late, but the roads are heavy 
this morning. Come to the fire and warm 
yir hands before ye begin yir work. It's a 
fine day for mathematics," and Mr.'McGuffie 
senior used to tell his son with much relish 
that their hands were warmed. The school 
was profoundly convinced that if necessary 
Bulldog would 'be prepared to swim the river 
rather than miss a day in the mathematical 



It was a pleasant spring morning, and the 
"marble" season had just begun, when 
Howieson, after a vicious and well-directed 
stroke which won him three " brownies," 
inquired casually whether anybody had seen 
Bulldog go in ; for, notwithstanding the 
years which came and went, his passing in 
w^as always an occasion. Everyone then 
recollected that he had not been seen, but 
no one for a moment suggested that he 
had not arrived ; and even when the school 
trooped into the class-room and found Bull- 
dog's desk empty, there was no exhilara- 
tion and no tendency to take advantage of 
the circumstances. No one knew where he 
might be lying in wait, and from what 
quarter he might suddenly appear ; and it was 
wonderful with w^hat docility the boys began 
to work under the mild and beneficent reign 
of Mr. Byles, who had not at that time 
joined with the Dowbiggins in the unlawful 
pursuit of game. As the forenoon wore on 
there was certainly some curiosity, and 
Nestie was questioned as to Bulldog's where- 
abouts ; but it w^as understood to be a point 
of honour with Nestie, as a member of his 
household, to give no information about 
Bulldog's movements, and so the school were 
none the wiser. There was some wdld talk 
during the hour, and a dozen stories were 
afloat by afternoon. Next morning it was 
boldly said that Bulldog was ill, and some, 
who did not know what truth was, asserted 
that he was in bed, and challenged Nestie to 
deny the slander. That ingenuous young 
gentleman replied vaguely but politely, and 
veiled the whole situation in such a mist of 
irrelevant detail that the school went in for 
the second day to the class-room rejoicing 
with trembling, and not at all sure whether 
Bulldog might not arrive in a carriage 
and pair, possibly with a large comforter 
round his throat, but otherwise full of 
spirits and perfectly tit for duty. It was 
only after the twelve o'clock break and a 
searching cross-examination of Nestie that 
the school could believe in the goodness 
of Providence, and felt like the Children of 
Israel on the other bank of the Red Sea. 
Some were for celebrating their independence 
in the North Meadow and treating Mr. 
Byles with absolute contempt ; but there 
were others who judged with some acuteness 
that they could have the North Meadow any 
day, but they might never again have a fall 
hour in the mathematical class-room without 
Bulldog. There seemed a certain fitness in 
holding the celebration amid the scenes 
of labour and discipline, and the mathe- 

matical class went in to wait on Mr. Byles's 
instruction in high spirits and without one 
missing. It is true that the Dowbiggins 
showed for the first time some reluctance in 
attending to their studies, but it was pointed 
out to them in a very firm and persuasive 
way by Sparrow that it would be disgraceful 
for them to be absent when Bulldog was ill, 
and that the class could not allow such an 
act of treachery. Sparrow was so full of 
honest feeling that he saw^ Thomas John 
safely within the door, and, since he threat- 
ened an unreasonable delay, assisted him 
across the threshold from behind. There is 
no perfectly full and accurate account extant 
of what took place between twelve and one 
that day in the mathematical class-room, but 
what may be called contributions to history 
oozed out and were gratefully welcomed by 
the school. It was told liow Bauldie, being 
summoned by Mr. Byles to work a problem 
on the board, instead of a triangle drew a 
fetching likeness of Mr. Byles himself, and 
being much encouraged by the applause of 
the class, and having an artist's love of his 
work, thrust a pipe into Mr. Byles's mouth 
(pictorially), and blacked one of Mr. Byles's 
eyes (also pictorially), and then went to his 
seat with a sense of modest worth. That 
Mr. Byles, through a want of artistic appre- 
ciation, resented this Bohemian likeness of 
himself, and, moved by a Philistine spirit, 
would have wiped it from the board ; but the 
senior members of the class would on no 
account allow any work by a young but 
promising master to be lost, and succeeded 
in the struggle in wiping Mr. Byles's own face 
with the chalky cloth. That Mr. Byles, 
instead of entering into the spirit of the day, 
lost his temper and went to Bulldog's closet 
for a cane ; whereupon Sparrow, seizing the 
opportunity so pleasantly afforded, locked 
Mr. Byles in that place of retirement, and so 
kept him out of any further mischief for the 
rest of the hour. That as Mr. Byles had 
been deposed from office on account of his 
incapacity, and the place of mathematical 
master w^as left vacant. Sparrow was un- 
animously elected to the position, and gave 
an address, from Bulldog's desk, replete 
with popular humour. That as Thomas John 
did not seem to be giving such attention to 
his studies as might have been expected, 
Spiug ordered that he be brought up for 
punishment, which was promptly done by 
Bauldie and Howieson. That after a long 
review of Thomas John's iniquitous career, 
Spiug gave him the tawse with much 
faithfulness, Bauldie seeing that Thomas 



'We gathered hopefully round the Russian guns. 

John held out his hand in a becoming 
fashion ; then that unhappy young gentle- 
man was sent to his seat with a warning 
from Sparrow that this must never occur 
again. That Nestie, having stealthily left 
the room, gave such an accurate imitation of 
Bulldog's voice in the passage —" Pack of 
little fidlers taking advantage of my absence ; 
but I'll warm them "—that there was an 
instantaneous rush for the seats ; and when 
the door opened and Nestie appeared, the 
mathematical class-room was as quiet as 
pussy, and Spiug was ostentatiously working 
at a mathematical problem. There are men 
living who look back on that day with 
modest, thankful hearts, finding in its re- 
membrance a solace in old age for the cares 
of life ; and the scene on which they dwell 
most fondly is Nestie, whose face had been 
whitened for his abominable trick, standing 
on the top of Bulldog's desk, and singing a 

school song with the 
manner of the Count 
and the accent of 
Moossy, while Spiug 
with a cane in his 
hand compelled 
Dowbiggin to join in 
the chorus, and Byles 
could be heard bleat- 
ing from the closet. 
Ah, me ! how soon 
we are spoiled by 
this sinful world, and 
lose the sweet inno- 
cence of our first 
years ! how poor are 
the rewards of am- 
bition compared to 
the simple pleasures 
I of childhood ! 

It could not be 
expected that we 
should ever have 
another day as good 
again, but everyone 
had a firm confidence 
in the originality of 
Sparrow when it was 
a question of mis- 
chief. We gathered 
hopefully round the 
Russian guns next 
morning — for, as I 
have said, the guns 
were our forum and 
place of public 
address— and, while 
affecting an attitude 
of studied indifference, we waited with 
desire to hear the plan of campaign from 
our leader's lips. But Sparrow, like all great 
generals, was full of surprises, and that 
morning he was silent and unapproachable. 
Various suggestions were made for brighten- 
ing the mathematical labours and cheering 
up Mr. Byles, till at last Howieson, weary of 
their futility, proposed that the whole class 
should go up to the top of the North 
Meadow and bathe in the river, and then 
Sparrow broke silence. 

" Ye may go to bathe if ye like, Jock, and 
Cosh may go with ye, and if he's drowned 
it'll be no loss, nor, for that matter, if the 
half of ye are carried down the river. For 
myself, I'm going to tlie mathematical class, 
and if onybody meddles wi' Byles I'll fight 
him in the back yard in the dinner-hour for 
half a dozen stone-gingers." 

" Is there onything wrang with your head, 


Spiiig ? " For tlie tlioughfc of Peter busy 
with a triangle under the care and pastoral 
oversight of Mr. Byles could only be 
explained in one way. 

" No," replied Spiug savagely, " nor with 

my fists, either. The fact is " And 

then Spiug hesitated, realising amid his many 
excellences a certain deficiency of speech for 
a delicate situation. " Nestie, what are ye 
glowering at ? Get up on the gun and tell 
them aboot — what ye told me this meenut." 
And the school gathered in amazement 
round our pulpit, on which Nestie stood quite 

" It was very good fun-n yesterday, boys, 
but it w^on't do to~t-to-day. Bully's very ill, 
and Doctor Manley is afraid that he may — 
d-die, and it would 
be beastly bad 
f r m - m to be 
having larks when 
Bulldog is — may 

be " And 

Nestie came down 
hurriedly from the 
gun and went be- 
hind the crowd, 
while Sparrow 
covered his retreat 
in an aggressive 
manner, all tlie 
more aggressive 
that he did not 
seem himself to be 
quite indifl^erent. 

Manley said it. 
Then every boy 
knew it must ])e 
going hard with 
Bulldog ; for there 
was not in broad 
Scotland a cleverer, 
pluckier, cheerier 
soul in his great 
profession than 
John Manley, M.l). 
of Edinburgh, with 
half a dozen 
honours of Scot- 
land, England, and 
France. He had 
an insight into 
cases that was al- 
most supernatural, 
he gave prescrip- 
tions which nobody 
but his own chemist 
could make up, he 
had expedients of 

treatment tliat never occurred to any other 
man, and then he had a way with him that 
used to bring people up from the gates of 
death and fill despairing relatives with hope. 
His arrival in the sick-room, a little man, with 
brusque, sharp, straightforward manner, 
seemed in itself to change the whole face of 
things and beat back the tides of disease. 
He would not hear that any disease w^as 
serious, but he treated it as if it were ; he 
would not allow a gloomy face in a sick- 
room, and his language to women wdio began 
to whimper, when he got them outside the 
room, was such as tom-cats would be ashamed 
of ; and he regarded the idea of any person 
below eighty dying on his hands as a piece of 
incredible impertinence. All over Perthshire 

Diima kill BuUdog, 

God ! ' 



country doctors in their hours of anxiety and 
perplexity sent for Manley ; and when two 
men like William McClure and John Manley 
took a job in hand together, Death might as 
well leave and go to another case, for he 
would not have a look in with those cham- 
pions in the doorway. English sportsmen in 
lonely shooting-boxes sent for the Muirtown 
crack in hours of sudden distress, and then 
would go up to London and swear in the 
clubs that there was a man down there in a 
country town of Scotland who was cleverer 
than all the West End swell doctors put 
together. He would not allow^ big names 
of diseases to be used in his hearing, believing 
that the shadow killed more people than the 
reality, and lighting with all his might 
against the melancholy delight that Scots 
people have in serious sickness and other 
dreary dispensations. When Manley returned 
one autumn from a week's holiday and found 
the people of the North Free Kirk mourning 
in the streets over their minister, because he 
was dying of diplitheria, and his young wife 
asking grace to give her husband up if it were 
the will of God, Manley went to the house 
in a whirlwind of indignation, declaring that 
to call a sore throat diphtheria was a tempting 
of Providence, and that it was a mere mercy 
that they hadn't got the real disease " just 
for a judgment." It happened, however, 
that his treatment was exactly the same 
as that for diphtheria, and although he 
declared that he didn't know whether it was 
necessary for him to come back again for 
such an*^ ordinary case, he did drop in by a 
series of accidents twice a day for more than 
a week ; and although no one dared to whisper 
it in his presence, there are people who think 
to this day that the minister had diphtheria. 
As Manley, however, insisted that it was 
nothing but a sore throat, the minister felt 
bound "to get better, and the whole congre- 
gation would have thanked Manley in a body 
iiad it not been that he would liave laughed 
aloud. Many a boy remembered the day 
when he had been ill and sweating with 
terror lest be should die— although he 
woiddn't have said that to any living 
creature— and Manley had come in like a 
breeze of fresh air, and declared that he was 
nothing but a " skulking young dog," with 
nothing wrong about him, except the desire 
to escape for three days from Bulldog. 

"Well, Jimmie, ye don't deserve it, for 
you're themost mischievous little rascal, except 
Peter McGuifie, in the whole of Muirtown ; 
but I'll give you three days in bed, and your 
mother will let you have something nice to 

eat, and then out you go and back to the 
Seminary," and going out of the door Manley 
would turn round and shake his fist at the 
bed, " just a trick, nothing else." It might 
be three weeks before the boy was out of 
bed, but he was never afraid again, and had 
some heart to fight his disease. 

Boys are not fools, and the Seminary knew 
that, if Manley had alloAved death to be even 
mentioned in connection with Bulldog, 
it was more than likely that they would 
never see the master of the mathematical 
department again. And boys are a perfect 
absurdity, for— as sure as death— tliey were 
not glad. Bulldog had thrashed them all, 
or almost all, with faithfulness and per- 
severance, and some of them he had thrashed 
many times ; he had never petted any of 
them, and never more than six times, 
perhaps, said a kind word to them. But 
that morning, as they stood, silent, awkward 
and angry, round the guns, there is no doubt 
about it, the Seminary knew that it loved 
Bulldog. Never to see his erect figure and 
stern face come across the North Meadow, 
never to hear him say again from the desk, 
" Attention to your work, you little fidlers " : 
never to watch him promenading down 
between the benches, overseeing each boy's 
task and stimulating the negligent on some 
tender part of their bodies ; never to be 
thrashed by him again ! At the thought of 
this calamity each boy felt bad in his clothes, 
and Sparrow, resenting what he judged the 
impertinent spying of Cosh, threatened to 
punch his head, and "learn Cosh to be 
watching him." As everybody knows, boys 
have no sentiment and no feehng, so the 
.collapse of that morning must be set down 
to pure cussedness ; but the school was so 
low that Byles ruled over them without 
resistance, and might have thrashed them 
if he had so pleased and had not ventured to 
use Bulldog's cane. 

Had they not been boys, they would have 
called at Bulldog's to learn how he was. 
Being boys, they avoided his name and 
pretended they were indifferent ; but when 
they met Manley on the bridge that after- 
noon, and judged he had come from Bulldog's, 
they studied his face with the skill of wild 
animals and concluded each one for himself 
that things were going badly with the 
master. They picked up every scrap of 
information from their fathers in the 
evening, although they fiercely resented the 
suggestion of their mothers that they would 
be concerned about "Mr. MacKinnon's 
ilhiess " — as if they cared whether a master 

'Peter laid a grimy paw open upon the bedclothes.' 



were ill or well, as if it were not better for 
them that he should be ill, especially such 
an old brute as Bulldog. And the average 
mother was very much disappointed by 
this lack of feeling, and said to her husband 
at night that she had expected better things 
from Archibald ; but if she had gone suddenly 
into Bauldie's room — for that was his real 
name, Archibald being only the thing given 
in baptism — she would have found that 
truculent worthy sobbing aloud and covering 
his head with the blankets, lest his elder 
brother, who slept in the same room, should 
hear him. You have no reason to believe 
me, and his mother would not have believed 
me, but — as sure as death — Bauldie was 
crying because Bulldog was sick unto death. 

Next morning Spiug and a couple of 
friends .happened by the merest accident 
to be loitering at Bailie MacFarlane's shop 
window, and examining with interest the 
ancient furniture exposed, at the very time 
when that wortliy magistrate came out and 
questioned Dr. Manley " How things were 
going up-bye wi' the maister ? " 

" Not well. Bailie, not well at all. I don't 
like the case ; it looks bad, very bad indeed, 
and I'm not a croaker. Disease is gone, 
and he's a strong man, not a stronger in 
Muirtown than MacKinnon ; but he has lost 
interest in things, and isn't making an effort 
to get better ; just lying quiet and looking 
at you— says he's taking a rest, and if we 
don't get him waked up, I tell you. Bailie, it 
will be a long one." 

" Michty," said the Bailie, overcome with 
astonishment at the thought of Bulldog 
dying, as it were, of gentleness. 

" Yes, yes," said Manley ; " but that's just 
the way with those strong, healthy men, who 
have never known a day's sickness till they 
are old ; they break up suddenly. And he'll 
be missed. Bailie, Bulldog didn't thrash 
you and me, else we would have been better 
men ; but he has attended to our boys." 

" He has been verra conscientious," and 
the Bailie shook his head, sadly mourning 
over a man who had laid down his life in 
discharge of discipline. But the boys de- 
parted without remark, and Spiug loosened 
tiie strap of Bauldie's books, so that they fell 
in a heap upon the street, whereat there was 
a brisk interchange of ideas, and then tlie 
company w^ent on its way rejoicing. So 
callous is a boy. 

Nestie was not at school that day, and 
perhaps that was the reason that Sparrow 
grew sulky and ill-tempered, taking offence 
if anyone looked at him, and picking quarrels 

in the corridors, and finally disappearing 
during the dinner-hour. It was supposed 
that he had broken bounds and gone to 
Woody Island, that forbidden Paradise of the 
Seminary, and that while the class was 
wasting its time with Byles, Peter was playing 
the Red Indian. He did not deny the 
charge next day, and took an hour's deten- 
tion in the afternoon with great equanimity, 
but at the time he was supposed to be 
stalking Indians behind the trees, and 
shooting them as they floated down the river 
on a log, he was lying among the hay in his 
father's stable, hidden from sight, and — as 
sure as death— the Sparrow was trying to 
pray for Bulldog. 

The virtues of Mr. McGuffie senior were 
those of the natural man, and Mr. McGuffie 
junior had never been present at any form 
of family prayers, nor had he attended a 
Sunday-school, nor had he sat under any 
minister in particular. He had had no train- 
ing in devotional exercises, although he had 
enjoyed an elaborate education in profanity 
under his father and the grooms, and so his 
form of prayer was entirely his ow^n. 

" God, I dinna ken how to call You, but 
they say Ye hear onybody. I'm Peter 
McGuffie, but mebbe Ye will ken me better by 
Spiug. I'm no a good laddie like Nestie, and 
I'm aye gettin' the tawse, but I'm awful fond 
of Bulldog. Diima kill Bulldog, God ; dinna 
kill Bulldog ! If Ye let him off this time I'll 
never say any bad words again — as sure as 
death — and I'll never play truant, and I'll 
never slap Dowbiggin's face, and I'll never 
steal birds' eggs, and I'll never set the terrier 
on the cats. I'll w^ash my face, and— my 
hands, too, and I'll go to the Sabbath-schule, 
and I'll do ony thing Ye ask me if Ye'll let 
off Bulldog. For ony sake, dinna kill Bull-